Life is Better Under a Totalitarian Regime
by Seaouryou
Summary: The entire school student body appears to be suffering under the delusion that Stan is dating Kyle. Stan is determined to prove them wrong. Unfortunately, he seems to be proving them right.
1. Stick Figure Porn

This story contains both het and slash. And even a little bachelorhood. It's also a multi-chapter fic, which is rare for me.

Standard disclaimer applies. Hope you enjoy.

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It all started when Stan asked a girl out.

"Oh," she had said, surprised. She bit her lip, and curled a strand of hair around her finger, and glanced quickly at his face before looking at the ground.

"Um... no," she said. "We'd better not."

"What?' Stan said, crestfallen. "Why not?"

"Er," she said. "Well... you're a _really nice_ guy, Stan, but... I think cheating is wrong."

"Oh," he said. "Sorry... I didn't know you were seeing someone."

She blinked. "I'm not."

"But you just said-"

"Stan," she interrupted, "I can't go out with you. Wouldn't your boyfriend be mad?"

It took nearly ten seconds for the full impact of her words to hit him.

"Wha... _WHAT?_ I DO NOT HAVE A BOYFRIEND!"

"Oh," she said, pressing a hand to her mouth. "Did you two break up? I'm so sorry."

"'_Break'_... NO! I've _never_ had a boyfriend!"

She gave him a confused look. "What? No... The redhead?"

"What redhe-... _Kyle_?"

"Yes, that's right," she said. "You are such a cute couple."

"We are not a couple! I mean, Kyle? _Kyle?_"

She shrugged. "Well, admittedly, he is a bit of a nerd. But he has those gorgeous cheekbones..."

"I don't care about Kyle's cheekbones! I'm not interested in ANY of his bones! Oh, _God_."

"If you say so," she said, in a I-want-to-end-this-conversation-and-get-away-from-you-before-your-crazy-gets-on-my-shirt tone of voice.

Stan let her go. He was in a daze. He wandered to his next class period, missing the final bell because his brain was buzzing. He showed up to history nearly five minutes late, and Mr. Dorcas looked up from the overhead and scowled at him while he dropped into his seat. Stan hardly noticed. He was looking at Kyle, who sat several rows over in the front, and trying to figure out how anyone could think they were anything but best friends.

Mr. Dorcas was the only teacher that still made them sit in alphabetical order. This meant Stan was never able to talk to Kyle in that class. It also meant there was nothing separating Kyle and Cartman, and since the school year had begun they had fought over squirrel monkeys, Jews, plaid, Jews, whether Tristão da Cunha or Francisco de Ulloa was the better sixteenth century explorer, and did he mention Jews?

History was the only class where they were anywhere near each other. Every other teacher had caught on very quickly during their freshman year and now they always put them on opposite sides of the room. Mr. Dorcas, however, liked egging them on. Every since the police had busted up those cock, dog, and bovine fight rings during the summer, he'd been looking for ways to rile them up.

Stan wished he could talk to Kyle. Then he could tell him how misinformed that girl had been, and they would have a good laugh, and he could forget about the whole thing.

Kenny (who, obviously, sat directly behind him) leaned forward in his seat and hissed, in a voice low enough so that Mr. Dorcas wouldn't hear, "Dude, can't you do that on your own time?"

"Huh?" Stan said, blinking and turning his head enough to look at Kenny, but not enough to turn around in his seat and get barked at.

"You've been eye-fucking Kyle since you walked in. It's creepy."

Stan sat stock-still for a moment. Then he shouted, "I AM NOT FUCKING HIM!"

The classroom was immediately, unnervingly silent. Mr. Dorcas looked up from the overhead again. Wendy gave him a confused look. Cartman and Kyle stopped mid-argument and looked over.

"... Yes, Mister Marsh. Mussolini has been dead for seventy years. There is no need to reassure us."

Stan could actually _feel_ his face turn red.

Kenny clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder. "He cut you off? That's rough, man."

"I'm not- WE'RE not-" Stan was trying to formulate words. Some girl that didn't know him too well, that was one thing. But _Kenny?_ How could Kenny think he and Kyle were... like _that?_

Something sinister was afoot, Stan decided.

"If Mister Marsh is done with his outbursts-" Stan slid down in his seat a few inches "-we will be beginning our section on dictators."

He began rambling about the usual - communist countries and Fascist leaders and oppression. Then he announced that he would be splitting the class into groups of four and assigning them a dictator for them to research, write a paper on, and present to the class in a week. But here was the thing: they were supposed to explain how the dictator had been _beneficial_.

Stan lifted an eyebrow. Between this and the last project, which was to make posters about how women's suffrage was the worst Amendment to date, he really had to wonder about Mr. Dorcas.

"Donovan, Tweek, Stevens, Pirrip, you will be researching Fulgencio Batista. Testaburger, Valmer, Depp, Tedlock, you will have Kim Jong-il. McCormick, Cartman, Broflovski, and Marsh, you'll do Hitler. I trust you haven't had any illicit affairs with _him_, Mister Marsh?"

"Hold on," Kyle said. "You want me to write a paper on how Hitler was _good_?"

Mr. Dorcas adjusted his square glasses. They tended to mislead his students into thinking he was weak or just, or anything but a sadistic sociopath. "If you have a problem, Mister Broflovski, you can always take an 'F' for your group."

Kyle made a noise that was half rage, half disbelief.

Kenny leaned forward again. "So why'd he cut you off? You forget your anniversary or some couple-y shit like that?"

"Wha... _There is no anniversary!_"

"Mister Marsh. Mister McCormick," Mr. Dorcas said, who'd been in the middle of assigning Stalin to Craig, Butters, and two girls Stan had had class with for the past eight years but couldn't for the life of him remember their names. "Go to the principal's office."

Stan swore under his breath while he crammed his stuff into his backpack. Kenny just grinned and strolled out. He never bothered to carry around school supplies, and just stole what he needed out of Stan's bag. Kyle caught Stan's eyes on his way out, and he felt his face heat up and had to look away.

Kenny was halfway down the hall when Stan left the classroom, and he hollered at him to wait up.

"All right dude," he hissed. "What the fuck?"

"What do you mean?" Kenny asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"Why do you think... I am not dating Kyle! I am not gay!"

Kenny's other eyebrow went up. "You aren't?"

"No!"

"Oh."

"Oh? _OH?_ What do you mean, _oh?_"

"Well, you've always been pretty bent, man."

"WHAT!"

"Though," Kenny said, "If you aren't, I sort of regret those flyers now."

"Flyers?" Stan repeated quickly. "What flyers?"

"Oh, it was nothing really. Just your picture with F.A.G. stamped underneath it. And then I jotted down a few phrases like 'Football After-Game,' and 'Fucking Ass without Grease'..."

"_WHAT?_"

"And I doodled some stick figure porn underneath that."

"_WHY?_"

"Why?" Kenny repeated, scratching his chin. "Never really thought of why before. Revenge, I suppose."

"Revenge?"

"Yes. When we were twelve and the circus rolled into town and I _missed_ the three-breasted woman because Cartman got it into his head that he could make ten million dollars selling Mephisto's genetic experiments to the circus manager, that fat little man whom I suspect was into bestiality judging by the way he reacted when Cartman mentioned their four asses, and then the animal lover in you reared its ugly head and you _dragged_ me along with you to stop him from selling them into a life of ass-rape and general humiliation even though I didn't give a fuck. And then you and Kyle got into a screaming match with Cartman and he dropped the rope he was using to lift the hippo out of its cage and it _fell_ on me and broke my leg in three place, three mother fucking _places_, and then you put me on suicide watch so I couldn't just overdose on some Tylenol and come the next day good as new, and I had to sit on my couch for three months with that unbearably itchy cast and watch soaps and my family had to go back onto half-waffle dinners because of the hospital bill."

Kenny paused to breathe. Stan stared at him.

"... That was four _years_ ago! You still haven't gotten over that?"

"You'd think someone would, wouldn't you?"

"Look, just how many people did you show the flyers to?"

"I only handed out a couple."

"Well, that's goo-"

"And then I ran off a stack of photocopies and left them in the library... and submitted one to the yearbook... and stapled a bunch to phone poles downtown."

Stan gaped at him for a while. He closed his mouth. Then he opened it again and made a gurgling noise.

"Kenny," he finally said, "you spend way too much time with Cartman."

"Well, who am I supposed to spend time with while you and Kyle suck face?"

"We do not suck face!"

"Dude, I don't really want to know what you suck."

"You - I'm - _gah!_" Stan said.

"I'm ditching the office and going to smoke," Kenny said. "Coming?"

"Smoking will kill you, you know."

"Bah." Kenny dismissed his warning with a wave of the hand. "Been there," he said. "Done that."

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TBC


	2. BFFs

Thank you everyone that has read and/or reviewed!

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Okay, so Stan was pissed off about and a little amazed at what Kenny had done, but at least now things made sense. That was just Kenny reading sex into everything and spreading rumors, so it wasn't like it was based on _fact_, or something.

Because the project was due next Friday, Kyle insisted that they meet in the library that Saturday and research. When they arrived (Cartman whining about sacrificing his weekend for homework) they found that Kyle hadn't been the only one to come up with the idea; Wendy's group was there too, monopolizing the best tables in the back corner.

Stan shouldn't have been surprised. Wendy and Kyle bonded over research papers and midterms. It had all started in their freshmen year, when Kyle had discovered finals for the first time and nearly killed himself by going three weeks without sleeping and drinking nothing but coffee. He'd ended up nearly as bad as Tweek. Eventually his parents had had to check him into the psych ward, where he'd reportedly seen what was either God, or a faulty forty-watt light bulb. Kenny had assured them all that it didn't matter which, because they were both equally inefficient.

(Stan had asked him what God said. Kyle told him God spoke in a low electric hum incomprehensible to mortals.)

Then Kyle had found out that, even though he had went through a minor nervous break down, he _still_ had only gotten second in his class. He'd tracked Wendy down and begged her for her secret; she'd agreed to tutor him and he'd apparently fallen in love with her flow charts and color-coded notes. Ever since then they'd gotten together every Thursday and studied or, as Kenny referred to it, "mind-fucked."

Stan had had a real problem with it at first. Kyle had laughed it off at first and assured Stan he was interested in one thing and one thing only from Wendy, and that was her timetables. After a while, however, he got fed up and told Stan to stop his bitching and get over it.

"Writing about all the good Hitler did. This," Cartman said, "is going to be the easiest assignment ever."

"Cartman," Kyle said through clenched teeth. "I'm warning you _now_, you say anything-"

"Let's open with his brilliant solution to the Jew infestation."

"_God damn it Cartman, shut your fucking mouth!_"

The librarian gave Kyle a dirty look. He fumed and began leafing through a book. They sat in silence for the next thirty minutes or a so; every time Cartman opened his mouth, Stan kicked him under the table.

"Damn it," Cartman finally broke out, "quit kicking me, you God damn hippie-!"

"Kyle? I need your help."

Cartman turned around in his seat; Stan, Kenny, and Kyle looked up from their books. Wendy was standing there, clutching a handful of notes and a book on Korean economics.

"What do you want, ho?"

Wendy glared at him. "I wasn't talking to _you_, Cartman," she said with contempt. "I need help with this project; see, my group is-"

"Tell you what," Cartman said. "I'll be generous and help you out. You be the labor and I'll be management. First, go get some books-"

"Cartman!" she snapped, "I don't need help from a racist, megalomaniac like you!"

"Christ, you sure are a bitch when you ask for a favor."

"Uh, Wendy?" Kyle tried to intervene, but Wendy seemed to have forgotten the other three boys existed.

"The day I ask you for a favor is the day a Galapagos tortoise flies out of my ass!"

"Well I always knew you had _something_ stuffed up there."

"Wendy."

"_You son of a-!_"

"Wendy!"

"_What?_" she snarled, and then seemed to remember she'd come over to talk to Kyle. "Oh. Right. Well, Jimmy will only tell jokes and Andrew and Veronica just keep playing flirty grab-ass games, and I can't get any work done at _all_. All I can find is information on Kim Jong-il's illegitimate children and the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty."

Kenny leaned forward and gave her a very blatant once-over. "I wouldn't mind grabbing a little ass myself."

"_Ugh_, Kenny," Wendy said and folded her arms across her chest.

"You're just framing them, you know."

She dropped her arms quickly and scowled at him.

"Sure, Wendy," Kyle said, chucking his book to the side. "I'm not going to find anything anyway. I'll grab a few books and go over it with you."

"Would you take Kenny with you?" she asked, glaring at the boy in question and fingering the hem of her skirt, tugging it down a little.

"Kenny, c'mon."

"I'd rather stay here," he said, grinning. "What do'ya say Wendy, we can blow off this project and get something to eat... Maybe you could blow _me_-"

"Come _on_, you poor piece of shit," Cartman snapped suddenly and grabbed Kenny by the collar, knocking over his chair and dragging him off mid-sentence. Kyle stared at them a moment, a little bemused, and then he walked after them.

"Dumbass, that's the fiction section, politics is on the other side of the library..."

Wendy fidgeted with her skirt a moment later, then she sat down next to Stan and smiled at him. He returned it halfheartedly, then glanced away and drummed his fingers on the table. Stan never really knew what to say to Wendy. He hadn't spoken to her at all from fifth grade through to eighth, and then suddenly she was over at Kyle's house all the time.

Unfortunately, while he preferred awkward silence, Wendy seemed determined to make awkward stabs at conversation.

"I heard you asked out Liz."

"Mmm," he said. He really didn't want to talk about it, because he really didn't want to think about it. He cracked open a book and flipped through it, hoping Wendy would get the hint.

"Are things not going well with Kyle?"

Stan dropped the book on his foot. Swearing, he reached down to snatch it back up and rubbed his toe. "Look," he said, "Kenny made the whole thing up, there's absolutely no truth behind it, and-"

"Kenny?" Wendy repeated. "What does Kenny have to do with anything?"

Stan frowned. "Didn't... didn't you hear it from Kenny?"

"No."

"Then who did you hear it from?"

"No one."

"... _What?_"

"Was it supposed to be a secret? Sorry, but you guys aren't exactly subtle."

"_What?_ Wendy, we _aren't_ dating."

She gave him a confused look. "Why not?"

"'Why not?' What the hell do you mean, '_Why not?'_"

"I mean, you two obviously like each other."

"No we don't! I don't! We _don't!_"

She frowned at him. "But... even back in fourth grade, you got all jealous because I was his partner for that egg assignment."

"Wha... I was jealous because _he_ was _your_ partner!"

"Really?"

"Yes!"

"Oh."

"_Why does everyone keep saying that?_ Kyle and I are BFFs! And that's IT!"

"Right," Wendy said. "Boy Friends Forever."

"_BEST! BEST_ Friends Forever!"

"If you keep yelling like that," Kyle said, reappearing with an armful of books, "you're going to get us kicked out of the library." Cartman and Kenny were trailing along behind him; Cartman had apparently decided to turn Kenny into his own personal pack mule, as he was carrying twice as many books and Cartman had none.

"What _are_ you yelling about, anyway?" Kyle asked, dropping back into a chair and flipping to the index of one of the books.

"Kyle," Stan said, twisting around in his chair. "_People_ think we are _dating_."

"Oh?" Kyle said, not looking up from the book, and in fact pulling it up a bit to hide his face. "How... shocking and unexpected."

"Yes! Exactly!" Stan said, who'd been wanting his reaffirmation since yesterday afternoon.

"Dude, are you still going on about that?" Kenny asked, dumping his load of books onto the table.

"Christ! This is ridiculous!" Kyle shouted suddenly, slamming his book against the table.

"I _know!_" Stan said. "It is completely baseless-"

"Not that," Kyle said, waving him off. "This fucking project! That asshole Mr. Dorcas gave me Hitler _on purpose_."

"Did you find anything on Kim Jong-il?" Wendy asked hopefully. Kyle gestured towards Kenny's books.

"I got one on the state of their economy, military, and everything. It's all this library has."

"Thanks so much, Kyle," she said genuinely, grabbing the books. She gave Stan a somewhat concerned smile, hugged her books to her chest when she noticed where Kenny's gaze was directed, gave Cartman a furious look, and walked back to her own table.

"She's got fantastic legs, doesn't she?" Kenny said brightly. "She's a bit flat, but that's what happens to sporty girls, I guess."

"Damn it, Kenny," Stan growled. "Can you _not_ think about sex, or is it the only thing keeping your head from imploding?"

"Look, I'm sorry about the flyers. What more do you want?"

"I want you to stop starting these stupid rumors!"

"You were all laughing when I convinced the fourth grade Clyde only had one testicle," he muttered, though his comment was indecipherable because of his hood. He coughed and said clearly, or at least as clear as he was capable of being, "I'm only saying what everyone else is thinking."

"What! Everyone does NOT think I am gay!"

"Oh, really? Then what were you and Wendy talking about?"

Stan made a furious sound. "I'll ASK them."

Kenny lifted an eyebrow. "You're going to... _ask_ the entire school if they think you're banging Kyle?"

He colored a little but remained firm. "Yes, damn it! And they're all going to say _no_, too! Right, Kyle?"

"Mmm," Kyle said, burying himself in a textbook.

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TBC


	3. Jessica Rabbit is Hot

This is my favorite chapter thus far. It's just so... well. I'll let you read.

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"Sure," Token said.

"Of course," Red said, combing her fingers through her hair. "Isn't it your anniversary soon?"

"You two are _totally_ made for each other, too," Heidi said.

"Ob-obvi... _obviously_, Stan," Jimmy stuttered.

"Yeah," Clyde said. "Why do you ask?"

"Duh," Sally said.

"Wuh-well shucks, Stan, everyone knows that," Butters said, wringing his hands a little.

Stan sat at a lunch table, his head resting on his folded arms, and waited for Kyle, Kenny, and Cartman to return from the lunch line.

_I don't believe it._

All morning, he'd asked everyone he came across. People he remembered from elementary school. People who knew him, who'd _seen_ him agonize over Wendy.

And they'd all said _Yes._

Everyone! They hadn't even _hesitated_, they'd all just nodded and said Yes, of course you're dating Kyle Broflovski, like they were discussing the color of the sky.

Stan slipped his arms out of the way and banged his head on the table a few times, until someone's hand landed on the back of his neck. He glanced up at Kyle, who had his tray balanced on one hand and was giving him a half amused, half concerned look.

"Dude, there are easier, less painful ways to kill brain cells." Stan smiled feebly and Kyle sat down next to him, Cartman and Kenny dropping into place across from them.

"So," Kenny said immediately, "how many people think you and Kyle are going at it every night, and twice on Fridays?"

Stan muttered something and glared at a nearby tree. Kenny snickered.

"I don't want to say 'I told you so,' but - no, actually, I do want to say it."

Stan redirected his glare to Kenny. "I've just been... asking the wrong people! That's it! They're all gullible..."

"Stan, you need to let it go, man," Cartman said, glaring and smacking Kenny's hand away from his food.

Stan glared at him, too, than turned around and scanned the campus for someone he hadn't asked yet.

"Hey - Craig! Craig!"

The boy turned around and flipped him off.

"Yeah, yeah," Stan said, waving him over. "I want to ask you something."

"Dude-" Kenny said as he walked over. Stan made a 'shut up' motion at him. He and Craig had football practice together and, outside Kyle, Kenny, and Cartman, he was the person he spent the most time with. Stan figured if anyone could vouch for his heterosexuality, it would be him.

"What is it?" Craig asked.

"Do you think Kyle and I are dating?"

Craig blinked and looked at him, then looked at Kyle, who shrugged helplessly, then back at him. "If this supposed to be some sort of trick question?"

"What? No! Just answer the question."

"Well, yeah," Craig said. "I thought you were going to ask me a hard question. Like about our math homework."

Stan stared at him. Craig waited for him to say something, and when he didn't he said, "Is that it?"

"Yeah, that's all," Kenny said, when Stan still didn't reply. Craig returned to his own group and Kenny shook his head.

"It's _almost_ not funny."

Kyle cleared his throat and starting talking about his mother's latest crusade, which was joining a group that was trying to make fast food restaurants serve healthier food.

"... so when I said that if mothers really wanted their kids to eat right they should fix them healthy food instead of giving them ten bucks and expecting someone else to do it for them she told me to stop being sexist and go wash the dishes." He finished off his drink. "On the bright side, now she's gone all day."

"Those dried up skanks are full of shit. There's nothing wrong with fast food," Cartman said, slapping Kenny away from his food again.

Kyle snorted. "You could be their poster child, Cartman."

"Up yours," Cartman said. "Everyone knows that group was started by some Irish bitch that rounded up all her drunk friends one evening."

"Hey," Kenny snapped, still rubbing his hand, "shut up about the Irish, Cartman."

"Yeah? Why should I?"

"Because _I'm_ Irish, dick."

Cartman had the look of someone whose one-night stand just told them they had AIDS the morning after. "_WHAT?_"

"Dude, my last name is McCormick. It's not my fault if you're too stupid to figure it out."

"Oh God, you're a potato fucker? A bagpipe-playing, kilt-wearing, sheep-chasing drunk?"

"That's the _Scottish_, lardass."

"Just when I thought I had a refuge from the hippie and the Jew," Cartman went on as if he hadn't said anything. "This explains everything. Your poverty and your drunk parents and-"

Kenny slugged him.

"-your solving all your problems with bar fights," Cartman snarled, clutching his jaw.

"Damn, Kyle," Kenny said. "I suddenly have so much more admiration for your restraint."

The bell rang. Cartman and Kenny left for their next class, still hurling obscenities at each other. Kyle dumped his trash then returned to where Stan was still sitting, staring dumbly at the ground.

"Man, you'd better hurry before you're late."

"Right," he said absently.

"See you later, then," he said, grabbing his backpack and strolling off to some advanced physics class. Stan got up and walked to his elective class numbly.

His journalism class was the only one he did not share with any of the other three; in fact, save one person, there was no one in that class from his elementary school. Everyone else had burned themselves out on reporting during fourth grade. The one exception was Bebe Stevens, who wanted to learn everything she could about the news and reporting crimes to better prepare herself for law school. She'd wanted to be a marine biologist until the Jamboo incident, when she'd decided she didn't want "bat shit insane eco-terrorists" harassing her and/or shooting her in the head.

Though Stan usually sat on the opposite side of the room, he grabbed the desk next to her immediately and leaned over.

"Bebe, do you think I'm gay?"

She blinked, looking momentarily thrown off, then she scowled at him and crossed her arms. "Oh, I'm not falling for _that_ again."

"Huh?"

"I'm sure Kenny told you all about it," she said testily. "He came up to me acting all concerned and said he thought he might be gay, and wanted to kiss me to check. So I let him, and then that sneaky, two-faced, underhanded asshole slipped me the tongue and grabbed my chest!"

_Oh_, Stan thought. _That's right._ Kenny and Cartman hadn't been able to stop laughing about that.

"I don't want to kiss you, Bebe."

She looked wary a moment longer, then sighed. "Well," she said grudgingly, "I guess you're more trustworthy than that pervert. Okay. What was it you wanted to ask me?"

"Do you think I'm gay?" he repeated. She frowned a little.

"Well... _no_."

Though he'd said he wouldn't, he could have kissed her right there and then. At last, someone who was making _sense_-

"Really, just because you're dating Kyle doesn't mean you like _all _men. Forcing labels on people like that is so pointless. Everyone's gay for _someone_. For example, I'd do Jessica Rabbit... if she weren't a cartoon character. But then, who _wouldn't_ do Jessica Rabbit?"

Stan stared at her for a while. Then he said, "What."

"You're so lucky, by the way. Kyle has the greatest ass in school... no, in this entire town."

"_What?_"

"And he's the only circumcised guy around, too. Way more aesthetically pleasing, if you ask me."

Stan, who had _not_ asked her and could have lived his whole life without knowing that, gave her a horrified look and made an accompanying horrified sound. The overall impression was that of a man who wished desperately that life had a rewind/erase button and said button was in his possession.

The teacher began calling role and Bebe turned in her seat and faced the front, flipped open her notebook, and started taking notes.

Stan just kept gaping at her. He did this the entire period, and continued after the bell rang. His teacher finally had to shake him out of it and tell him to go home.

--

Kyle was woken up by something rapping on his window. He screwed his eyes closed and burrowed deeper under his thick comforter, but the tapping grew louder if anything. When it became to loud to ignore, Kyle stretched his hand out from under his blanket and groped around his night stand. His fingers finally brushed his alarm clock, and he closed his fist around it and hurled it at the source of the tapping. There was the sound of breaking glass, and then beautiful, beautiful silence.

He curled back up under his blankets and spared a few, fleeting thoughts to how he would wake up on time without his alarm clock, but eventually decided to worry about it when he was more lucid. He was nearly asleep again when he noticed the cold draft and that damned tapping restarted. Except now it was more of a pounding.

Kyle ripped the blanket off his head and glared at Stan, who was hanging on the other side of his broken window, clutching his alarm clock.

Grumbling, he kicked the blankets off and crossed the room. The floor was freezing, and the cold air pouring in through the clock-shaped hole in his window combined with the fact he always slept in nothing but boxer shorts was making him shiver.

"Stan," he hissed, "what the fuck are you doing here at-" he cast a quick glance at the clock Stan was still clutching "-four in the morning?"

"Falling off and breaking my _neck_, in a minute, if you don't let me in," he hissed back. "I've been clinging to your sill for nearly ten minutes and it's freezing balls out here! My fingers are going to go numb and I'm going to slip and-"

He yelped when Kyle swung the window open and ducked just quickly enough to avoid getting beamed in the head. Stan climbed in, glaring at him, and latched the window behind him.

Kyle shivered and rubbed his arms. Stan was the one whining about being cold, but at least he had a coat and boots. "What did you want?" he repeated, figuring the sooner he dealt with Stan's midnight crisis, the sooner he could return to his warm bed.

Unfortunately, Stan didn't say something prompt and easily fixed, like "I want a sandwich," or "Do you have the english homework?" Instead he frowned, looked down at his shoes, and finally muttered, "I couldn't sleep. I just - you know - couldn't stop _thinking_."

He started pacing, not that there was much room for it. Kyle had a meticulously organized backpack, but his room was littered with clothes, video games, and his extensive porn DVD collection which he was able to keep in his room because he'd replaced all the labels with those of boring documentaries like _The Plow That Broke the Plains_ and _Lost in La Mancha_.

"It's just... _the entire school_. I asked _everyone_, man! I asked those library trolls that never see the light of day, and the goths who loath school drama with an unholy, irrational passion, and those kids who play Dungeons and Dragons in the computer room, and they ALL thought we were dating! I asked kids I don't even know! I even asked the fucking _teachers!_"

"Well-"

"It's this _town_, man! Everyone that lives here is so completely out of touch with reality! Why am I _always_ the only one that looks at anything rationally? Realistically?"

Here he stopped and gave Kyle a pleading look, and when Kyle finally realized he was expecting some sort of response (because it was four AM, after all, and his thought process had slowed accordingly) he said, "... lead poisoning? Too many day time talk shows?"

Stan crossed the room and gripped Kyle by his shoulders. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, then he said, a little desperately, "The _entire school_, dude."

"You already said that," Kyle pointed out.

"_I'm not gay_," Stan said, shaking his arms a little.

Kyle patted him on the shoulder. "I believe you, Stan. Now will you please stop sneaking into my bedroom in the middle of the night and clinging to my boxer-clad body?"

--

TBC


	4. The Wittingly Named Chapter 4

And this is where the plot actually starts to pick up.

Incidentally, I love Cartman. And Kenny. And Kyle and Stan. I find I am incapable of picking a favorite.

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"Kyle," Wendy said, "will you be my partner?"

"Why?" he asked, turning around to glance at her.

"I want to talk to you."

"Why?" he repeated.

"Just _come on_, would you?" she snapped, grabbing his wrist and yanking him off to the opposite side of the gym. Kyle glanced over his shoulder and gave Stan a helpless, what-you-going-to-do? shrug as he was dragged off.

Stan frowned after them. If Wendy was snagging Kyle for partner stretches, that meant he'd be stuck with Cartman, in light of Kenny's most recent not-so-unsuspected demise.

Every PE class started with running three laps around the track. The PE teacher, whom Kenny assured everyone who'd listen was a dyke, butch hair cut and all, had ignored his complaints of chest pains and told him to run it off. He'd gone a few feet before he doubled over in a coughing fit and eventually died. As Stan had predicted, smoking had killed him.

Or perhaps it was all the PE students who'd trampled over him to get a better time on their run.

Stan sighed and held Cartman's feet while he did crunches. Not that 'did' was the right word. More like 'pretend to try whenever the teacher looked in their direction.' "What does Wendy want with Kyle?" he wondered out loud.

"What?" Cartman demanding, abandoning his faked exercises and sitting up to look at Kyle and Wendy.

"God dammit, he already has you, and now he's horning in on Wendy? They _should_ castrate all these Jew-whores at birth!"

"God, you too?" Stan snapped. "Kyle doesn't _have_ me. We aren't gay!"

"Stan, If you two were any gayer, you'd be shitting rainbows."

Stan scowled at him. "Why do you care, anyway?"

"I don't." Cartman gave Kyle a nasty look while he said it. Not that it was anything out of the usual for Cartman to glare at Kyle.

--

"Okay," Kyle said, speaking every time he came up on his crunches, "_why_ do you want to talk to me?"

"It's about Stan."

"Oh," he said, dropping back down to the floor.

"Kyle, I _mean it_," she said, poking him in the knee. He did a few more crunches and when she got tired of him avoiding her eyes, she spoke again.

"He's still jealous that we study together, you know. Every Thursday he sits on your couch and plays video games and pouts."

"I know."

"He _thinks_ we like each other."

"I know."

"Look Kyle, I'm not going to be your..." she flipped her hand looking for the right word. "Your _beard!_"

"Aw, just because I'm not shaving yet doesn't mean you have to rub it in."

"You know what I mean!" she snapped. Kyle came up and instead of dropping back down again he crossed his arms over his knees and gave her a thoughtful look.

"Why do you care so much all of a sudden, anyway?"

"What do you mean?" she said quickly.

"I mean you haven't cared about 'being my beard' until now. There some guy you like or something?"

Wendy flushed a little but the PE teacher blew her whistle before she could deny it. She got up and when she spoke again, her voice had a steely note.

"I'm serious, Kyle. If you don't sort this out with Stan, I... I won't enter the science fair with you when we're seniors!" She stormed off; Kyle paled and hurried after her.

"What? You heartless temptress, you can't dangle a joint scholarship in front of a man and then take it all away!"

She ignored him and joined her team on the other side of the volleyball net. Kyle walked over to Stan while the teacher barked instruction and started handing out balls.

"So," Stan said, a slight edge to his voice, "what did _Wendy_ want?"

"Oh..." Kyle glanced at him. "It was nothing."

"I'm sure," Stan muttered. Kyle gave an exasperated sigh.

"Dude, do we seriously have to have this conversation again? I'm _not_ interested in Wendy. I wouldn't go out with her."

"Oh?" Stan asked sullenly. "Why?"

"Because of you, dumbass."

Stan hesitated a while, then he dropped his hands and sighed.

"You're right; I'm sorry. You're not an asshole, you wouldn't go out with a friend's ex-girlfriend."

"That's not really what I meant-"

Kyle was cut off when Cartman, who was serving the ball for the other team, spiked it into his face.

He at first he simply stood there, still in a state of shock, and then he gripped his nose. "Oh, son of a bitch!"

"Man, you okay?" Stan said, alarmed.

"Eric!" the teacher barked. "I _just_ told you that serving the ball overhanded like that is illegal! Weren't you listening?" she shouted.

"He's being a pussy," Cartman said scornfully, crossing his arms.

The teacher crossed the gym and pulled Kyle's hand away from his face while demanding, "Let me see that."

Stan stared. Kyle's fingers came away bloody.

The PE teacher poked and prodded at his face mercilessly, then released him with a curt nod. "Nothing's broken. Eric's right. Suck it up, Kyle."

"But I'm bleeding!"

"Fine," she said. "Stanley, walk him to the nurse's office, I'm sure they'll coddle you there." She walked off again to shout at the other teams.

"Tweak, stop shying away from the ball!"

"GAH! But I don't want to bleed to death!" Tweak shrieked, casting a terrified look toward Kyle.

"No one's bleeding to death! And even if they _were_, they ought to take it like a man!"

"Even the girls?" someone muttered.

"_Especially_ the girls, Bebe!" Stan heard the teacher bark as he put a hand on Kyle's back and steered him out of the gym.

--

Cartman scoffed as he watched Stan escort Kyle out of the gym. And he said he wasn't queer. The pussy was so deep in denial it was pathetic. There had never been any doubt in Cartman's mind that he and Kyle were fags. It was just such a given.

Still, he had to admit Stan had given him some doubts. He knew they both got off on quantum physics and extracurricular college-application padding. Maybe Kyle _was_ planning on seducing Wendy. It would be just such the sort of greedy thing a Jew would do.

"What the hell did you do that for!" a nasal voice demanded, and Cartman turned to see Wendy, who had her hands on her hips and was scowling at him.

"What are you bitching about now?"

Wendy's scowl deepened, if it were possible. "Don't give me that crap, I saw you! You hit him in the face on purpose!"

"It was an improvement, if you ask me."

"God. I can at least understand you being a jackass when you two are arguing, but he didn't _do_ anything!"

"Aw, worried about the fag?"

Wendy fumed. "Don't call him that! And he hasn't said anything to you all day! What justification could you possibly have to hit him in the face?"

"It's just the fact he exists."

"You're an awful, terrible person," she said, gritting her teeth. "_God_," she muttered, "what's wrong with..."

"... Me?" he said, when she didn't finish her sentence. It seemed to jolt her back to the conversation.

"_You!_ What's wrong with _you_, is what I was going to say!" she snapped and moved to the opposite side of the volley ball court as quickly as she could manage.

--

"Kyle, this is the nurse's office," Stan said, tugging on his friend's elbow, as he wasn't paying much attention and had walked right past it. Kyle doubled back and Stan held the door open for him.

When they entered, the nurse was carrying a freshman girl into the back room. She was clinging to his neck and sobbing about how a deceptively nice-looking eighty year old man had mowed her down on his bike. When Kyle and Stan came into the room, he nodded toward the chairs by the door (his hands being too full to gesture) and said, "I'll be with you in a minute." Then he disappeared into the room where girls on their periods and girls pretending to be on their periods (because it was the one excuse you could use to get out of taking a test that no one would challenge) went to lie down for a while.

Kyle sat down on one of the hard plastic chairs but Stan remained standing, walking around the nurse's office which doubled as a utility closet now and then. He looked at some glass jars full of bloated dead frogs suspended in liquid that the science class had dumped there for safe keeping, and it suddenly occurred to Stan where Kenny had gotten those ones he'd chucked at cars from.

After all, Kenny ended up in the nurse's office a _lot_.

Stan glanced back at Kyle, who was leaning against the wall and holding his increasingly bloody sleeve against his nose. "You okay, man?"

"Yeah... God dammit, what is _wrong_ with that asshole?" Kyle snarled, and carried on with a few obscenities. Stan wasn't _quite_ sure what they all meant - Kyle had always had a more colorful vocabulary than him, despite having a much stricter mother.

"So, um..." Stan interrupted his tirade, and glanced at the wall clock. PE was their last class of the day and the final bell was fast approaching. Kyle broke off and looked up questioningly.

"What _did_ Wendy want?"

"She wanted me to talk about my feelings and resorted to extortion when I refused. Typical female behavior." He shrugged.

"Oh," Stan said, and turned back to the preserved frogs. They reminded him of his impending science class, in which they would have to dissect the poor amphibians. The thought made him squirm; age had not toughened his stomach in the least. In middle school he just paired up with Kyle and made him do all the work, but now they were in _high school_ and Kyle was in an _Advanced Placement_ class with _Wendy_.

Stan shifted uncomfortably. He didn't _like_ being irrationally jealous. He'd _thought_ he was over Wendy, but every time he saw her with Kyle it turned his stomach.

Kyle coughed. It wasn't one of those 'I genuinely need to clear my throat' coughs, but more an 'I want your attention' sort of cough. Stan turned to face him and Kyle shifted around in his seat for a few minutes, frowning.

"Stan... there's something I should tell you."

And it was in that moment that the nurse burst back into the room.

He examined Kyle's nose much in the same way the PE teacher had, though more gently, and then he released him and nodded.

"Not too bad. You just keep putting pressure on it until it stops bleeding and you can skip the end of your class period." He glanced at Stan. "So what are _you_ here for?"

"Er," Stan said, "nothing, I guess."

"Well then you run along to class," the nurse said, turning back to assist the girl in the back room, who'd started yelling about permanent disfigurement.

They were silent for a moment, then Kyle snickered and said, in a fairly good imitation of the nurse, "That's right, get back to class like a good little schoolboy, Stanley."

"I'd punch you if you weren't bleeding," Stan said, though he was grinning. He had one hand on the door when he thought to ask, "So... what were you going to tell me?"

Kyle smiled at him around his bloody sleeve. "Nothing. Ah. We have to get that history paper written. Make sure you're at the library tomorrow after school."

Stan rolled his eyes and let the door swing shut behind him.

There were fifteen minutes left of school, but Stan wasn't about to go back to PE. He ducked into the locker rooms instead and dressed speedily, avoiding the crowded rush he usually had to contend with, then he threw his stuff in his bag and simply walked out. The school had a horrible track record for stopping people from skipping.

The bus hadn't arrived yet, and there was no one to give him a ride, so Stan opted to walk rather than wait around in the parking lot for the next quarter of an hour. It wasn't as though his house was that far away, anyway.

Still, walking, even with a fifteen-minute head start, meant that he arrived late. When he finally pushed open his front door, his mother came into the room with a frown.

"Stanley? Did you miss the bus?"

"Um, yeah," he said. Which was true. Sort of.

"And Kyle didn't give you a ride?" she asked, and her frown turned more concerned than annoyed. "Are you two having relationship problems?"

Stan stood there and looked at her for a while. Then he turned and walked upstairs without a word.

He kicked his door closed behind him and flopped down on his bed; walking home through all that snow had tired him out. Downstairs he could hear his mom and dad discussing with worried voices why their son might have gotten into a fight with his boyfriend.

Stan rolled over and glared up at the ceiling light. He just couldn't understand it. Usually when the town went insane there was some reason for it. He knew _he'd_ never done anything that would make people think he was into Kyle. _Kyle_ hadn't...

He blinked as it suddenly occurred to him. Kyle... _couldn't_ like him, right? But maybe, he thought, as the doubt settled in his gut, maybe he _did_. Maybe Kyle had a crush on him and everyone around him could tell, and that's why they thought they were going out.

Stan frowned as he contemplated this, cycling through disbelief, to dread, to what-the-fuck-am-I-going-to-do, and back to disbelief.

But Kyle had always been... well, the _straight_ one. Whereas Kenny had gotten picked up for male prostitution and Cartman had been cross dressing and giving Ben Affleck hand jobs, Kyle had caught a train ride to New York City with the intent of stabbing five people to death rather than use moisturizer and wear designer labels.

No, he thought, Kyle wasn't gay. Stan was as convinced of his best friend's inherent straightness as he was of his own. Besides, if on the off chance that Kyle _did_ have a crush on him, he would tell him. Kyle had always been very direct with his feelings, and usually based his decisions off them rather than logic. If Kyle liked him, he would have grabbed him and kissed him without thinking of the consequences by now.

He relaxed and kicked off his shoes, sending them flying in the general direction of his floor. Anyway, he _knew_ Kyle. He was just getting himself riled up over nothing, and it was just the town being stupid and not looking at things logically, as per usual. Stan's mind wandered as he began to doze off.

"_Stan... there's something I should tell you."_

Stan sat bolt upright in his bed. His mouth felt dry and his heart felt like a rabbit on speed. He stared at the tread marks his shoes had left on the wall. Slowly he laid back down and pressed a palm to his forehead with a grimace.

Maybe... he would just avoid Kyle for a little while.

--

TBC


	5. Like a Bludgeoning to the Head

I just love Stan's thought process.

--

--

--

For once, Stan was actually glad the only classes he had with Kyle were history and PE. He found it was amazingly easy to avoid someone when they were on the other side of the school learning about vector calculus, dynamical systems, and the chaos theory while he was taking good old algebra.

And it was easy to avoid him between classes, too, because Kyle was sort of easy to spot from a distance, what with the Jewfro and lime-green hat.

Lunch was an entirely different matter, however.

Stan slunk into the school library, tray in hand, and cast a passing glance at the librarian. Stan was fairly sure you weren't supposed to be eating in the library, but then, the librarian seemed more interested in his magazine of poultry porn than what the students were doing.

The school employed sadistic racists to teach history, hard-assed women of dubious sexual orientation to teach physical education, male nurses, and convicted chicken molesters to manage the library. Stan wondered who, exactly, was in charge of hiring.

He was planning on sitting by himself, rather than join the guys that played Dungeons and Dragons, but then he noticed Wendy, half-hidden behind a stack of books, and decided to join her.

"Mind if I sit?"

She looked up from the book she'd been flipping through so fast he was surprised she hadn't given herself a paper cut, and her eyebrows rose several notches.

"Why?"

"... Because we're friends?"

Her eyebrows rose a bit more. "We're friends?"

"We're not _not_ friends, right?"

"... I suppose," she said, clearing off a space for him. Stan put down his tray and pulled up a chair, and then he glanced at the spines of the books, which were all about North Korea.

"I didn't know you were a library troll."

"Neither I you," she shot back, then relented. "I'm not usually, but this assignment is an absolute nightmare. I mean, God, at this point I _wish_ I'd gotten Hitler. Is your group already done?"

"Um," Stan said. "Actually, we haven't really started."

Wendy looked shocked, then apprehensive. "Well, I hope you're done by Thursday."

"Wouldn't want to break your date, huh?" Stan tried to keep the jealous note out of his voice. He really _did._ Wendy frowned at him.

"So why are _you_ eating lunch here, then?"

"Er. Just... enjoying the atmosphere." Wendy gave him a look. Stan resolutely avoided her gaze.

She sighed. "Stan, are you avoiding Kyle?"

"I'm not _avoiding_ him, I'm just, um... not talking to him."

"Why?"

"Well. Um. I think Kyle might... you know..."

She sighed again and closed her book. "Stan, you're being ridiculous."

"Why?" he said, zoning in on her. "Has he said anything to you? Has he-"

"This may shock you, Stan - astound you, even - but when Kyle and I get together to study we don't talk about you. We actually _study_."

Stan huffed and started digging into his food. Wendy drummed her fingers on the thick volume of North Korean foreign policy.

"Why don't you just talk to him?"

"No way," he said quickly.

"Stan, do you think it's at all possible you think Kyle has a crush on you because you might _want_ him to have a crush on you?"

"No! Dammit, Wendy, I already told you we aren't dating! I don't know why everyone thinks we are!"

"You guys went to the last school dance together."

"We didn't have dates! We were going STAG!"

"All right," she said, folding her hands on the table between them. "You were at the library Saturday. What did you do Sunday?"

"I went to the movies with... Kyle..." He trailed off, then his tone turned defensive. "So what! We go to the movies all the time!"

Wendy gave him a look. "That's sort of the point, Stan."

--

Kyle scowled down at the book in his hands.

It was after school and he was seated in the town library, and Kenny was off flirting with Rebecca Cogswald (one of the few girls in town who didn't slap him when he came onto them), and Cartman was reading _Schindler's List_ and snickering.

Which was what was making him scowl. They'd been there for an hour and hadn't gotten any work done at all, and the report was due in two days, and Cartman and Kenny were jerking around and Stan hadn't even _shown up_.

He really wished they cared more about their grades. Or at _all_, really.

Cartman snickered again and Kyle finally snapped and flung his book at his head. He hoped it hurt a lot. He hoped he got a bloody nose, in fact.

"Jesus Christ!" Cartman screeched. "What the fuck is your problem, Jew?"

"Will you shut the fuck up, Cartman? The holocaust was not funny!"

"Aw, you mad because your chew toy's been avoiding you?"

"Shut up about Stan, too!" Kyle snarled, and chucked another book at him. There was nothing like taking it out on Cartman to make him feel better.

Cartman, however, ducked, and the book missed and just smacked into a shelf.

"Ey, you know what, Kyle?" He said irritably. "_Screw you_. I'm going home."

"You can't go home!" Kyle shouted. "We haven't finished our report yet!"

Cartman ignored him and headed toward the door. He would have exited it, too, had he not heard a clatter and some muted curses to his right. They sounded vaguely familiar and he wandered over curiously.

Wendy had been trying to hold a stack of books while simultaneously using the copier machine. She had discovered this was, in fact, physically impossible, if the number of books she'd just dropped on her foot was any indication.

She was hopping on one foot and rubbing her other when she heard an annoying, distinctive voice say, "That some sort of hippie rain dance?"

Wendy jumped and held unto the copier to steady herself, scowling at Cartman. "What do _you_ want?"

"Or maybe you're trying to summon some flower power," Cartman went on, ignoring her. Wendy snorted and rolled her eyes.

"For _your information_, I dropped some books on my foot, all right?"

"That was stupid."

"I didn't do it on purpose!" she glared and turned back toward the copier, arranging a book and pushing the right buttons. "I've got to photocopy all this stuff because the librarian said checking out forty books was 'excessive,' but I won't know which ones I need until I read them all!"

"Kim Jong-il is easy," Cartman said in a dismissive tone of voice.

"He is not! I can't find a single thing he did that was beneficial!"

"So just look at the state of their economy and military and whatever before he came into power and after, and then claim any improvements were because of him and ignore everything else."

Wendy stared at him a moment. "... I can't do that!"

"Why not?"

"Because I can't claim he improved things if it was just a coincidence."

"Whatever, ho. Everyone else does it."

She glared. "God, with that attitude, it's no wonder you're failing every class."

"You should know that geniuses usually get bad grades. The school just isn't up to my level."

"I'm sure," Wendy said snidely. "You're lucky you have Kyle in your group."

"Lucky!" Cartman sounded incredulous.

"I know he'll just end up writing the whole thing himself because he got stuck with a couple of slackers like you and Kenny. You couldn't write a good report if you tried."

"I'll have you know I could write a better report than Jew-boy blindfolded. I just can't keep bailing him out forever, is all. If you light a match for a man, he's warm for a minute. If you set a man on fire, he's warm for the rest of his life."

"Whatever, Cartman," she said in a dismissive tone of voice, turning back to the copier machine. Cartman scowled at her back, then stormed back over to where Kyle was sitting and flung the copy of _Schindler's List_ he was still carrying at the back of his head.

Unfortunately, as Kyle had assumed Cartman actually _had_ gone home and wasn't expecting anything to be flung at his head, he didn't duck, and was whacked over the head with the volume. He whirled around in his seat, clutching the back of his head and giving Cartman a murderous look.

"_Ow!_ What the _fuck_ was that for?"

"Just giving you a taste of your own medicine. Or are you afraid for your _genius intellect?_ Don't worry, I'm sure it will take more than a clubbing to the head to bring you down to the level of us _mere mortals._"

"What's _wrong_ with you?" Kyle said, giving him a look and rubbing his neck. "What are you raving about?"

"Hey, dudes," Kenny said brightly, appearing from behind a bookcase and straightening his rumpled clothes. "Kyle," he said, "usually I don't like knowing where a chick's been before me, but I feel I must thank you for the work you did on Rebecca."

"My God, Kenny, shut the fuck up," Kyle said, making a face.

Kenny blinked a few times and glanced at the two of them. "You've been fighting," he attested firmly. "I guess that means Stan still hasn't shown up?"

--

Stan felt sort of bad about blowing off the library.

After all, as Wendy had pointed out, it was already Wednesday and they hadn't even started their paper. And without Kenny and himself around to distract them, Kyle and Cartman usually ended up trying to kill each other.

But hanging out with Kyle would just feel too weird. He needed to prove to himself that these rumors were just bullshit before he could be around him again. And there was only one person in town he could count on to be reasonable.

Stan found that his house was very easy to find, even though he hadn't been there for at least five years. He would have rang the doorbell, but he thought anything remotely related to music might set him off, so he knocked instead.

He waited for a minute or two, and then the door opened.

"... Stan?"

Chef sounded - and looked, actually - surprised. Stan didn't exactly blame him. He hadn't really seen him ever since he'd graduated from elementary school.

"Chef, I have problems."

"What's wrong?" Chef asked. He sounded like he'd expected that. Stan couldn't really blame him for that, either. Growing up in this town, he usually had problems.

"It's about Kyle."

"Oh," Chef said. "Well, I don't think I've got any songs that would really apply to that."

"Everyone thinks we're dating."

"Aren't you?"

"NO!"

"Okay, okay," Chef said, holding up his hands placidly. "I believe you."

"I don't know what to do," Stan said mournfully, walking in and slumping down on Chef's ugly couch.

"Well, Stan, you shouldn't let what other people think worry you-"

"It's not just that," Stan interrupted. Chef raised an eyebrow and Stan looked down at his shoes and picked at the couch's upholstery. "Um..." he said. "I think it might be _true_... not the part about us going out, obviously, but about Kyle being... you know..." Stan rubbed the back of his neck, his face turning a little red.

"Oh," Chef said.

"But," Stan blurted out, "Kyle _doesn't act_... He _acts_ straight! He watches porn and he likes sports, even if he's shitty at them because he's built like a twig. And I always figured he was screwing around with Wendy behind my back, because they're locked up in his bedroom for two hours every Thursday and what sort of teenaged guy has a girl in his room and doesn't do anything about it?"

"Well-"

"A gay one," Stan answered his own question sullenly, sliding a little lower in his seat.

"Stan, I'm sure Kyle wouldn't go out with Wendy because of your history with her."

"Yeah, I know," Stan said glumly. "And, again. What sort of teenaged guy would turn down getting laid for a friend?"

"... You have a point," Chef admitted, looking at the ceiling. Stan groaned and Chef said, "Has Kyle done anything to make you think he likes you?"

"Well..." Stan hesitated. "He's not like, doodling my name in his notebooks or anything like that - I think. I've sort of been avoiding him all day."

"Well, Stan, I think you ought to make sure before you let it worry you."

"Yeah..." Stan said, looking at his boots. "Yeah, you're right," he sucked in a breath, got to his feet, and smiled. "Thanks, Chef."

"Anytime, children," he said, nodding toward the door. Stan let himself out, turning up his collar against the sudden cold wind. He crammed his hands into his pockets and headed home with his head down, kicking the snow in front of him.

Chef _was_ right, Stan knew. He had to know for sure if Kyle liked him or not. He just couldn't keep avoiding him. And there was only one way to find out. He didn't really want to do it, but he didn't have any other options.

If he wanted to know how Kyle felt, he'd have to break into his room.

--

TBC


	6. DVDA

Wow, thank you everyone that has reviewed!

--

--

--

Stan slid a little lower in his bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. His mother stood over him wielding a thermometer and a frown.

"You don't have a temperature, Stanley. Are you _sure_ you're sick?"

"Er, yeah," he said, and coughed a little. "Very sick."

Mrs. Marsh sighed. "Well, I can't stay here and look after you. I have work." She pursed her lips and tapped the thermometer to her chin. "I suppose I could call in and see if Julie will cover for me..."

"No!" Stan said quickly, and then realized it was a little too loud and energetic for someone who was bedridden with a sore throat. "I mean," he went on in a hoarse voice, coughing a few times for good measure, "it's not that bad. I just want to sleep."

"Okay, honey," his mother said, kissing him on the forehead. "We have instant soup and orange juice if you get hungry; you call me if you need me. Feel better, okay?"

Stan nodded, feeling a little guilty. Mrs. Marsh left the room and Stan rolled over so that he was facing his clock. He listened to the sounds of his mother applying her makeup, collecting her things, and eventually leaving the house and starting her car. Stan waited until he couldn't hear the engine anymore, and then he waited some more.

When his clock read 8:45 he threw off his blanket, already dressed in full winter apparel. He retrieved his shoes and slipped them on without untying them first, something his mother always complained about because it wore out the heels. Stan sped quickly down the stairs, grabbed his hat off the banister and jammed it on his head, then checked quickly through the window to make sure the street was clear before he left the house.

Stan felt a little thrill of adrenaline. His friends called him a pussy because of it - Cartman in particular - but he didn't skip school or lie to his parents very often. And he certainly didn't do it so that he could go break into his best friend's house to make sure he wasn't beating off to the thought of him. Stan colored a little at the thought and sped up.

What would he do, he wondered, if Kyle _was?_ Just thinking about the possibility made him queasy. What would he do if he _knew_ it was a _certainty?_

That would be so... awkward. Stan couldn't imagine not being Kyle's best friend, but he didn't want to have to have a I-know-you-like-me-and-I-don't-like-you-I-mean-I-_do_-but-not-the-way-you-like-me conversation with him.

It was a short walk to Kyle's house, though in a town as small as South Park, it was a short walk to everything. Soon his house came into view, complete with Ike's bike abandoned in the yard and Mrs. Broflovski's mini van parked in the driveway.

Stan did a double take and dove behind a trash can.

_I forgot about Mrs. Broflovski_, Stan thought as he crouched in the snow, his heart pounding. _How_ could he have forgotten about Mrs. Broflovski? He couldn't very well knock on the door and ask for permission to search her son's room. And if she _saw_ him she'd call the school and his mom and the truant officers. She might even get him thrown in jail. Stan broke into a cold sweat as his mind created an increasingly improbable situation in which a cellmate tried to make him her bitch.

He was just about to turn and run for it (he was over at Kyle's house as often as not, he'd have plenty of opportunities to dig through his stuff in the future, and it wasn't a _cowardly flight_, it was a _strategic retreat_) when none other than Mrs. Broflovski walked out the front door.

Stan swore softly and crouched down lower, staying there until his curiosity took over and he glanced around the edge of the trash can to see what she was doing.

Mrs. Broflovski was in the middle of slapping a bumper sticker that said (Stan squinted) "Gluttony is a SIN" over Kyle's old, peeling Honor Roll sticker. Then she marched to the front seat, climbed in, and drove away. Stan was confused until he remembered what Kyle had told them Monday - that his mother's latest crusade was against fast-food.

He left his hiding place, wincing a moment because his legs had cramped up from crouching for so long, then glanced cautiously down the street. Kyle's mom's mini van was out of sight. Stan grinned, grateful for once for Sheila Broflovski's self-righteous attitude, then crossed the street and hopped up Kyle's front steps.

Naturally, the door was locked, but Stan knew where the spare key was hidden. Kyle had told him the summer between sixth and seventh grade, when his mother had signed him up for Jew camp (something, Kyle had assured him, that sucked major ass). His schedule had been hectic, and so instead of trying to work it out he'd just told Stan to crash at his house and he'd see him when he got home. Stan had spent the summer lounging on Kyle's bed, watching his DVDs and playing his video games.

Before sixth grade Kyle had kept it under his door mat like every other person in America, but then one day Cartman had found it and broke into his house and stole a lamp. Stan had at first assumed Cartman was simply unhinged, but then Kyle had explained that Cartman thought there was a genie inside it.

Of course, then it had turned out that there actually _was_. But he was lazy and sat on Cartman's couch for three months saying he would 'get around to' granting Cartman's wishes.

Whatever. Stan still said he was crazy.

So Kyle moved the key to the storm drain and Cartman threw a fit because he couldn't wish for Kyle's house to burn down, and life continued as usual. Not _normal_. Just usual.

Stan peeled his gloves off and stuffed them in his pocket, studying the drain and trying to pinpoint exactly where the key was. Then he jumped, grabbing the rim of the storm drain. His feet kicked out in space for a moment, then he heaved himself up and dug his hand into the mulch and ice, making a face.

His hand closed over the key the same moment he heard a metal creak. He dropped back down to the ground, picking wet leaf fragments off the key and wiping his hands on his pant leg. Then he looked up, and saw the cause of the metal creak.

Stan swore out loud.

The storm drain had bent under his weight; it had come away from the edge of the roof and dipped down. Stan looked on mournfully.

... _Well,_ he finally thought, looking at the very noticeable damage, _maybe they won't notice._

Luckily, Stan didn't break anything else on his way up to Kyle's room. He knew his way around the Broflovski's house as well he knew his own house, and that wasn't just because most of South Park had been built by the same contractor and almost all of the houses had nearly identical floor plans. He slid his gloves back on before he opened Kyle's door because his palms had started to sweat. He'd started thinking about what he may or may not find again. Stan took a breath. He'd know one way or another in a minute.

Kyle's room was laid out simply. On the left side of his bed was a desk, and on the right was a hip-high bookcase with a small, old, junky TV set on top of it. This is what Stan zoomed in on first, and knelt in front of it.

Though it was a bookcase, there were very few books in it. Instead, it was stuffed with VHS and DVDs. Kyle loved cult and independent films, genres Cartman dismissed as soft-core gay porn. Stan had always laughed it off, but (his stomach twisted up at the thought) maybe Cartman was closer to the truth than he'd thought.

When Kyle told him he was keeping porn right under his prying mother's noise, Stan had been impressed at his nerve. He'd only admitted it because Stan had been mocking his collection of old films and documentaries. Stan had immediately dropped _Plan 9 from Outer Space_ as if it had burned him, and Kyle had laughed at his friend's squeamishness.

Now Stan ran his finger along the spines of the movies, pulling out the titles he knew held immoral sex acts under their deceptively innocent covers. He'd made Kyle tell him which they were so that he'd never accidentally pop one in. And now, he thought with a certain amount of irony, here he was, looking for them.

Once he was confident he had them all - it wasn't a particularly big stack, really, less than a dozen - he paused to mentally prepare himself for the potentially life-destroying gay porn he might be about to witness. Then Stan slid the first one out of the _Surf Nazis Must Die_ box and pushed it in the VCR.

Two women appeared on the screen immediately, their tongues shoved down each others throats and their skirts hiked up their thighs. Stan yelped and dove for the remote, fumbling with it for a moment before slamming down on the eject button so hard he was sure it would break. He swallowed desperately, fighting his impulse to puke.

Okay, he thought. So Kyle did have gay porn. But certainly not the sort of gay porn he'd thought. He cast a fearful glance at the other eight movies and started to rethink this whole idea. Did he really want to know what Kyle's turn ons were?

Well... yeah. If _he_ was one of them.

For the next twenty minutes Stan subjected himself to brief snatches of bondage, CFNM, DVDA, gang-bang, altporn, deep throating, a variety of things he hadn't realized were physically possible in _Back Door Sluts 9_, and then finished it off with some more lesbians. He pulled out the last movie and sat dumbly for a moment, trying to control both his stomach and his hormones. He felt, vaguely, like he needed to take a shower - for various reasons.

Stan finally resumed motion and pushed the movies back into the bookshelf, swallowing a little and then backing away slowly as if it were a dangerous, rabid animal.

So. At least now Stan knew Kyle's porn collect didn't include any man-on-man action. Somehow, the thought failed to cheer him up. He turned to Kyle's bed and yanked up the comforter, glancing underneath it.

He was actually surprised. He'd expected the underneath of Kyle's bed to look like the underneath of his own bed: crammed full of junk he didn't have a place for but wanted to put out of sight so that his mother would stop bugging him about cleaning his room. But it was actually bare, save for a box in one corner. Stan reached under to drag it out, banging his head on the bed frame in the process.

He didn't know what he expected. He _feared_ something of his that Kyle had stolen away and kept as a memento, or something equally stalkerish. But what he found was nothing more sinister than a bunch of Star Trek DVDs.

Stan lifted an eyebrow. He hadn't known Kyle was into something quite so geeky, but science-fiction wasn't quite an guaranteed indication of homosexuality. Stan shoved the box back under the bed and straightened, walking around Kyle's bed to his desk.

He flipped through the books and notebooks on top of his desk first, but he didn't find any hearts with _Kyle Marsh_ scribbled in them. In fact, he didn't find anything but math homework, which reminded Stan he still hadn't started his yet.

Stan pulled a drawer open and rifled through the contents. It wasn't anything surprising, really. Some random pieces of paper, a lot of pencils, old movie tickets and the like. No secret, I-love-Stan-Marsh notes hidden away from the world. He slide the drawer closed and opened the one beneath it, and immediately spotted a green notebook with JOURNAL stamped on the front.

His breath caught a little and he pulled it out, staring at it. If Kyle had written it anywhere, this must be it. He wondered if it would be a simple declaration, or if there'd be graphic descriptions of homoerotic fantasies. Stan's stomach turned over at the thought and he fought his instinct to throw up. If he puked on Kyle's carpet his cover would be blown.

He almost didn't want to know what it said. But he _had_ to know if Kyle was lusting after him. Steeling himself for the worst, he flipped it open to the first page. Printed in the center in Kyle's neat handwriting was the following:

_Yeah, right. Stay the fuck out of my stuff, fatass._

Stan blinked at it. He flipped through the rest of the journal, but it was blank.

_Kyle really thinks Cartman's going to go through his stuff?_ Stan thought, putting the journal back in it the drawer, closing it, and continued his search of the room. _Talk about paranoid._

Perhaps the irony would strike him later.

He went through the rest of the drawers, but it was just more of the same. Finally turning away from the desk, his eyes swept the room and landed on the last feasible place Kyle would hide incriminating evidence: his closet.

The door was stuck. When he finally managed to yank it open, a box of junk tipped over and spilled onto the carpet, and a basketball beamed him in the head. Stan scowled and rubbed his head, then went to retrieve the ball from where it had rolled.

The box, he discovered, was not full of 'I HEART STAN' banners, but rather all the gifts his family had given him for his Bar Mitzvah. Stan remembered Kyle's Bar Mitzvah. Actually, mostly he remembered everyone running out of the synagogue screaming and Kyle beating Cartman to a pulp afterward.

Stan stuffed everything back into the box and pushed it - with some difficulty - back into Kyle's tightly packed closet. He dug around the floor but uncovered nothing more sinister than a book on Blaintology, nunchucks, and a recipe book on 101 ways to cook crab.

Kyle kept his dresser in his closet. Stan considered, briefly, going through it, but that just seemed a little _too_... Well, just because he was breaking into his best friend's room and going through his stuff didn't mean he was going to do something _weird_ like dig through his underwear.

He combed every corner of the closet but uncovered nothing. Nothing to suggest Kyle liked him, nothing even to suggest Kyle liked anything but average-to-highly attractive teenage girls.

So. Kyle probably _didn't_ like him.

That was a good thing.

Right.

--

TBC


	7. The Asmodai

Unfortunately, Stan won't be in the next two chapters.

--

--

--

"God damn it," Kyle said. "First Stan, now Kenny?"

It was Thursday afternoon, and the paper was due in less than twenty-four hours, and they didn't even have the courtesy to _show up._ Well, he relented (a little), Stan had stayed home sick today. Kyle hadn't really expected him to appear. But Kenny had no good excuse - Kyle had seen him less than an hour ago, at which point he'd threatened him with bodily harm if he snuck off to dry-hump Rebecca again and didn't help.

Kyle growled a little and rubbed his eyes, which were starting to get blurry from staring at so much small text. This entire project - no this whole _week_ had been one big headache. He didn't want to write a paper about how wonderful Hitler had been. He wanted to go yell at Stan for avoiding him, and maybe after Kyle'd yelled himself hoarse he'd explain everything to Stan.

"God," he grumbled, "I'd sell my soul for some aspirin."

"Well then you're shit out of luck. Jews don't have souls."

Kyle turned around and scowled at Cartman, who was flipping absently through Hitler's autobiography.

Cartman. _Cartman_. Stan abandoned him, Kenny blew him off, but _Cartman_ still showed up at the library. Kyle honestly couldn't figure that one out.

"I figured you'd be the first one to ditch this project," he muttered, propping up his book on the table and glaring at him over the top of it.

"Kyle, I am more mature than those douches, and as such, recognize the importance of schoolwork."

Kyle snorted. "Bullshit. Why are you _really_ here?"

"Maybe I just found a subject worth studying. Ever think of _that_, Jew boy?"

They glared at each for a while, then Kyle broke it off and looked down at his book. For the next several minutes he tried to focus on the tiny text, but ultimately found it to be impossible. Kyle let his book slip out of his hands so that it fell flat against the table with a clatter, and scowled at it.

"Do you have to bang everything?" Cartman demanded irritably. "_Some_ of us are trying to _work_."

"I hate Mr. Dorcas and I hate this fucking assignment," Kyle declared. "I'm not even supposed to still _be_ here. I'm supposed to be studying with Wendy."

"So why don't you quit bitching and just go?" Cartman asked rudely.

"Yeah, right," Kyle said. "And not write the paper, and get an F, and give that sadist the perverse pleasure of failing me."

"I could write it."

Kyle stared at him for a while. Then he started to laugh. Hysterically.

"Ey! What's so funny, you fucking Jew?"

"You, voluntarily doing schoolwork?" He chortled. "Even if you _did_, you'd just write a hate-paper."

"You really think I'd do something like that?" Cartman said, trying to sound insulted.

Kyle gave him a look.

"Oh yeah? Well _fuck you too!_"

"You think genocide is _funny_," Kyle sneered. "You can't tell me the paper wouldn't be one big excuse for you to spread your anti-Semitism."

"Christ, you people's egos are nearly as big as your noses. He killed cripples, retards, and fags, too."

He seethed. "You're a complete idiot if you think that's _convincing_ me."

"Look, dumbass," Cartman snapped, "if you haven't noticed, that's the sort of paper Mr. Dorcas _wants_. It makes a fucking lot more sense for me to write it than _you_."

Kyle glared at him. He didn't want to admit it - oh lord, he _really_ didn't want to admit it - but Cartman actually had a point. He couldn't think of a single good thing Hitler had done, despite a fairly stressful week of digging through textbooks. Cartman probably kept a list in his wallet.

Still... He narrowed, his eyes, suspicious. There had to be some catch in there, some reason Cartman was trying to talk his way _into_ homework, rather than out of it.

"Why are you so eager to write this thing?"

"God, will you shut up? Just run off and go see Wendy. She gets off on those study sessions, right?"

"Why does it matter what _Wendy_ likes?"

"'Cause maybe I don't want to listen to her bitching if she misses it. She's permanently PMSing as-is, I don't want to set her off."

"Hmm," Kyle said, and eyed him skeptically. Cartman scowled at him.

"Or maybe you're too broken up about Stan dumping you and want to drown your sorrows in textbooks," he said with sarcastic sweetness, which of course set Kyle off again.

"_Fuck you, Cartman!_"

"Fuck you too!"

"That's it; I'm out of here," Kyle snarled, shoving his things into his backpack and swinging it onto his shoulder, nearly beaming Cartman in the head with the edge of it. "Write the fucking paper yourself!"

"Fine! I will!"

"Go to hell!" Kyle shouted on his way out.

"I'm not going to go to hell; _I'm_ not a _Jew!_" Cartman hollered back.

--

Kenny peeled his eyes open.

Above him the sky was a swirling mass of fire and sulfur, and the ground he was lying on was radiating enough heat to make him sweat in his parka, something that did not happen often, as the article of clothing was old and thin and worn out.

He sat up and patted himself down, making sure he hadn't lost anything on the trip down, and then he stood up. His legs sort of felt like they were trying to stand on solid ground after spending a week on a ship, and he stumbled a little before he managed to steady himself, and even then he still rocked a little back and forth. Kenny sighed and scratched the back of his neck.

Run over by a truck. How... boring.

He glanced around at the other new arrivals; they were screaming and carrying on and generally exhibiting the hysteria one could expect to feel in such a situation, a feeling Kenny had outgrown a very long time ago. The orientation director coughed and tapped on the microphone for attention, and Kenny glanced over absently.

"Can everyone hear? Yes? Okay, good. Well, uh, hello. I'm Greg, and I'll, uh, be your hell director today. I'm afraid Satan won't be joining us today, because he has a... headache."

Kenny snickered. That was, of course, code for 'He partied to hard last night and he's walking funny this morning.'

"So, uh, yes, this _is _hell, in case anyone was wondering. Looks like there's about 9147 new arrivals today, so let's, uh, get started."

At this point Kenny had lost interest and was making his way through the crowd. He ducked out of the introductory stage whenever he could. They never said anything he hadn't heard a hundred times before.

He thought, briefly, over the people still up on earth. He assumed Kyle was going to be pissed he'd skipped out on the library. Never mind the fact he'd gotten run over on his way there and he didn't really have any _control_ over it, Kyle would still be angry he'd left him with Cartman. And Kyle tended to be very irrational when he was angry.

Well, nothing he could really do about that now. Kenny shoved his hands into his pockets and strolled along the bank of Styx, trying to decide how to occupy his time. He could go see Damien, he supposed, who was an okay guy to hang out with even if he was pretty whiny. But then he'd have to go to his house to find out where he was, and Kenny didn't think he was especially welcome in Satan's household, considering heaven recruited him to thwart his evil plans on an irregular basis. Besides, Kenny didn't want to catch the guy while he was recovering from a 'headache.'

He could head over to _The Asmodai_, which was not, as many demonologists believed, an literal _demon_ of lust, but in fact a very popular bar that served the best drinks and had the hottest waitresses. Kenny supposed he could see where people had made the mistake.

But he was hungry, and wanted something more than beer in his stomach, so he changed direction and headed toward the part of hell that housed those who had committed gluttony. That was were all the good food was, after all.

Everyone seemed to have this horrible picture of hell in their heads. Eternal torture and fire and demons wielding pitchforks. And, okay, that stuff was there. But 'eternal' was a bit exaggerated, the fire was actually a pleasant change from South Park's crappy weather, and the demons were short and did little more than prod people with sticks. Annoying, but far from unbearable.

Kenny actually preferred hell to heaven. The people who had never been to either generally gave him startled or pitying looks when he said this, but it was true. The company was much better in hell. He always had to avoid eye contact and speed-walk in heaven or else he'd get roped into some sing along or arts and crafts project. He didn't really care for the angels, either. Raphael thought puns were the highest form of comedy, Michael was constantly high on dry erase markers, and Gabriel had taken every opportunity to grope Kenny since he was eleven years old.

God was cool, though. Nice and laid back. Nothing fazed that guy.

Kenny paused when he got to the main street and glanced around for a while, deciding what he felt like. He finally ducked into a chicken joint and scanned the menus, which boasted things like "Deep fat fried in the hottest hell fire," and "No, that's not you cooking, it's our delicious buffalo wings!"

All of the restaurants in hell were fast-food. No big surprise there.

Kenny waited in line (one of the downsides of hell were the ridiculously long lines), and when it was finally ready he ordered one of everything on the menu (one of the upsides of hell were that you didn't actually need cash to get anything). He had accepted the tray from Princess Diana - her eternal punishment was to work at a fast-food joint - and turned around to find a table, when his eyes fell on none other but the insane German Jew-hater himself.

Kenny lifted an eyebrow. Not that it was a surprise that Hitler was in hell, but hell was a fairly big place. It had to be, to accommodate all its residents. It just struck Kenny as a little ironic that the man they'd been agonizing over all week was sitting there at a bright red plastic seat, eating popcorn chicken and drinking a milkshake.

Or, at least, Kyle had been agonizing over him. Kenny was pretty sure neither Stan nor Cartman cared about the assignment. Stan cared more about the 'rumors' going around about him and Kyle (and, really, Kenny _had_ thought he'd already known) and Cartman - well, actually, Kenny had no idea what the fatass cared about. Every time he thought he had Eric Cartman pinned down he did something that surprised him - like pretending he was afraid of hell to trick ten million dollars out of his classmates, or punching Kenny in the face when _all he did_ was comment on how nice Wendy's ass looked in her little soccer uniform, and how he wouldn't mind pounding it.

Whatever. Kyle was uptight and Stan was dense and Cartman had a myriad of serious emotional problems, but they beat the clingy-ness that was Damien or the faggy goth kids, and that was about how many options Kenny had for friends. The death thing tended to deter people.

Kenny marched over and pulled out a chair. "Mind if I sit here?"

Hitler looked up and gave him a somewhat bemused look, which Kenny took to mean, "Yes, by all means, and help yourself to my popcorn chicken while you're at it." Kenny did. It was heavenly. Or, okay, maybe that wasn't the best adjective. But it was still damn good chicken.

Hitler scowled at him. He seemed to like the chicken as well. A brief struggle ensued, but Kenny was poor and used to fighting over food, and therefore held the advantage.

"So," he finally said, monopolizing the chicken and taking a long victory sip from Hitler's milkshake, "I'm doing this report - well, okay, _Kyle's_ doing this report - on you and your totalitarian regime. So tell me, what was so great about it?"

Hitler immediately broke into a long speech, which Kenny listened to attentively. For the first minute or two. Then his mind started to wander, and he wished there were 72 virgins in hell he could occupy his time with, and that Church attendance would probably take a big dive if word got out about the friendship bracelets and pine cone crafts. Then he wondered if Stan was still freaking out about the whole 'dating Kyle' thing. He felt it was most likely. He felt a great stirring of pity for Kyle, until he remembered Kyle was most likely pissed off at him for something he couldn't control and would actually like very much to stop. I mean, really. Dying fucking _hurt_, and Kenny was no masochist. Which spun Kenny's thoughts off in a more perverse direction, where they always ended up eventually.

He thought about Annie, who had a pretty plain face but a nice rack, so all was forgiven. Except Annie was into bondage, among other things - it was _always_ the quiet ones - and Kenny was _not_. Maybe it was a result of getting his entrails ripped out and spread across the pavement on a regular basis, but he didn't get off on life-threatening situations.

Kenny realized Hitler was still talking. He focused on the man, and it occurred to him, vaguely, that if he brought back an interview with the Nazi leader, Kyle might forget he was pissed at him. After all, that had to be useful, right?

"Man," Kenny said, as Hitler babbled on. "I wish I could speak German."

--

TBC


	8. Who Doesn’t Love Psychopaths?

There'll be another update tomorrow.

--

--

--

"Kyle, your storm drain..."

"I know. I think some huge-ass bird landed on it or something."

Kyle was searching his pockets for his house key. He finally found it and turned the doorknob, swinging the door open. Wendy followed him into the house, closing the door behind him and hugging her books to herself with one arm while keeping her bag on her shoulder with the other.

"God, it's _freezing_ in here."

"Mom doesn't like heating an empty house. Hold on, I'll go turn on the heater," he said, kicking off his shoes and disappearing down the hall.

"Hey," Wendy heard him call from the kitchen. "You want something to eat?"

"No, I'm fine," she called back. "I'm just going to go up to your room."

Kyle made an acknowledging grunt and she headed up the stairs, keeping one hand up the handrail. She passed an air vent on her way up and could already feel the hot air pouring out of it.

Wendy had been in Kyle's room almost too many times to count. Surprisingly, neither his father nor his overbearing mother had so much as lifted an eyebrow at it. Stan had had far more of a problem with them studying there, and he used to routinely barge in on them 'unexpectedly,' obviously hoping to catch them in some sinful act.

She dumped her books on his desk and pulled out his extra chair, then glanced around the room. Her gaze fell in his window, and the clock-shaped hole in it that had been hastily patched up with some plastic and duct tape. She blinked and her eyebrows rose.

"I sincerely hope you weren't planning on changing your mind and taking some of my food," Kyle commented, coming in the door, a plate in hand. Wendy rolled her eyes and turned to face him.

"Don't worry; your chips are safe from my gluttonous appetite. I'm trying to watch my figure." She jabbed her thumb over her shoulder at his window. "What happened to your window?"

"Ah," he said. "Stan happened to my window. The patch job is crappy because I did it myself. I'm still trying to find the opportune moment to tell my parents."

Wendy furrowed her brow. "Where _is _your mom, anyway? The house's usually open by the time I come over."

"Some crusade."

"Ah," she said. She was starting to get used to Mrs. Broflovski. After all, she - along with the rest of the third grade - had heard Cartman's catchy jingle about the woman, but you really had to be around her to fully appreciate how _true_ it was.

Wendy bent down and unlaced her boots as Kyle, frowning, put his plate down on his desk and wandered over to his bookcase.

"Something wrong?" Wendy asked, looking up as she unzipped her backpack and pulled out her notebooks and a binder.

"Yeah..." he trailed off and dropped to his knees, pulling out some DVDs and putting them back in the right order. "I think someone's been going through my stuff."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Your room is a pigsty. How can you even tell?"

"It's a systematic mess. Everything has a place. Its place just happens to be on the floor more often than not."

Wendy rolled her eyes. "Right, Kyle." She watched his back as he reorganized his movies. "Who do you think did it? Your mom?"

"No, she's never sneaky when she goes through my stuff. It'd be obvious if it was her."

"Who then? Ike?"

"I guess," Kyle said, standing up and walking back to his desk. Then both plopped down on chairs; Wendy pulled out her english notebook and Kyle picked up his snack. "Let's start with _The Things They Carried_."

"Mrumpf," Kyle said around a mouthful of chips, and got out his copy.

"Mr. Budge keeps bringing up cathartic moments and the Hero's Journey, so we better try and memorize the monomyth; I'm sure it'll be on the final. How much of it do you remember?"

"The hero gets into trouble. The hero gets out of trouble."

Wendy groaned a little. "No Kurt Vonnegut, Kyle. We don't start _Slaughterhouse-Five_ until the next semester."

"All right, fine. Um... Well, there's departure, initiation, return, and reign and death."

Wendy flipped open her notebook to a fresh page and drew a hasty circle, which she divided up into four parts, labeling each accordingly. She drew several spokes around the circle, and then she turned her attention to the quarter that was labeled 'departure.'

"Okay," she said, "so the parts that have to do with departure are... The attempted murder, wound, and escape, and then the summons to adventure. The refusal, obviously, followed by the acquisition of a helper or some sort of supernatural aid..."

Kyle looked over her shoulder as she worked, then he chuckled a little. Wendy looked up.

"What?"

"Nothing. It's just a little comforting, knowing there's always going to be someone out there dorkier than I am."

"Laugh all you want," she said, jabbing her pencil at his chest, "but it's _because_ of my charts that I am number one in our graduating class, and you are only number _two_."

Kyle tried to look dignified while simultaneously cramming the rest of his chips into his mouth. Wendy cracked a grin.

"I'm glad, though. I thought you might still be writing your paper."

"Yeah," Kyle said, after swallowing. "I thought I'd have to blow you off, but then Cartman offered to write it."

Wendy dropped her pencil onto her notebook, and her eyes widened a little. "Cartman's writing it?"

"Yeah," he said again, nodding. "Weirdest thing, huh?" When she didn't answer him right away, he frowned and said, "Wendy? You okay?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah," she said quickly. "I was just wondering, what about Stan?"

"Oh. Well... Stan's been avoiding me. Since Tuesday."

"O - oh?" she said, picking at her sleeve.

"Yeah, and it's really starting to annoy- wait."

Wendy picked at her sleeve faster. Kyle eyed her, frowning thoughtfully.

"How'd you know we still hadn't finished our paper...?"

"Women's intuition?"

"You've been _talking to Stan,_" he said, sounding betrayed. "When?"

"Yesterday, all right?" she said, throwing up her hands. "We had lunch in the library under the supervision of that book-mobile-driver-turned-school-librarian. And he _knows_ - well, at least, he _suspects_ - look, I told you this would happen! And anyway, you should have told him years ago!"

Kyle scowled a little. "I _know_, all right?" he said, and pressed a hand to his forehead.

"He was bound to find out sooner or later," she added, and then seemed to decide his was feeling badly enough, because she reached out and patted his arm a little awkwardly.

"Look, it's not the end of the world."

"Hrn."

"It's not like he can avoid you forever. And, er. If he _can_, well, it's not like you don't know where he lives. You can just go break down his door - or window, I suppose, if you're feeling vindictive - and make him talk to you."

"You sort of suck at comforting people, Wendy," he said, grinning at her.

"Well at least I'm _trying_," she huffed, folding her arms.

"Please, don't strain yourself for my account."

"Speaking of doing things for other people..." she said, glancing at Kyle in what she hoped was a casual manner, "why's _Cartman_ writing the paper?"

"God, beats me. I have no idea why that fat fuck does the things he does. He's a dumbass, anyway."

"He _is not!_" she burst out. Kyle raised an eyebrow, and she paled.

"Er, I mean, he has to be pretty smart, right? To trick people the way he does."

"That's not exactly a virtue, Wendy. And it's not exactly difficult to trick the morons that populate this town."

"Well..." she said, and frowned, as if desperately trying to come up with a rebuttal.

"Why are you so hung up on Cartman, Wendy?"

She colored. "I am _not_."

"Yes, you are. Take, for instance, the paper: _why_ do you care if he's writing it?"

"Well - I just - look, we had a conversation, all right?"

"A conversation," Kyle repeated flatly.

"_Yes_, a conversation. And it was... halfway decent. And he gave me some advice on my paper that wasn't entirely horrible. I got to thinking..."

Kyle sighed and leaned back in his chair.

"... that, you know, he _can_ be a nice person. Sometimes."

Kyle snorted. "No, he can't."

"He can _to!_" she snarled, because she didn't like being contradicted.

"No, Wendy, he seriously can't. He is _always_ an evil, manipulative asshole. The only times he isn't is when he's being a deceptive, evil, manipulative asshole. I've never seen him genuinely care about anybody."

"Well _I_ have," she muttered stubbornly.

"Oh?" Kyle sounded skeptical. "Who, then?"

"_Me_." Kyle stared at her and she colored a little. "I... look, I'm not saying _I_ like him, or something ridiculous like that! It's just... why do you hate him so much?"

"What, do you want a list?"

"Kyle, _really_. What has he ever done that was so horrible?"

"Let's see," he said with mock concentration. "Horrible things Cartman has done... Horrible things Cartman has done..." Wendy scowled at him.

"Well, there was the time he started a hell-fearing cult to get ten million dollars."

"He didn't _force_ anybody to join," Wendy grumbled.

"Tricked a bunch of women into abortion so that he could build a fast-food joint, wouldn't shut up about his hand puppet, locked Butters in a bomb shelter for, like, a _week_, joined the special olympics, and turned a bunch of gingers into a murderous mob."

"Still..." Wendy said. "I mean, still, that's not _so_ bad..."

"He hacked up a kid's parents and fed them to him, Wendy. He's _had someone killed_."

"Well, so have I," she said, sitting up in her seat.

Kyle frowned. "Well, yeah... But... you were just a kid..."

"So was he," Wendy said, giving him a look.

"Fine," Kyle said. "You want a specific reason why I hate him? There are many, but let's say it's because he burned down the synagogue."

Wendy shifted around in her seat, obviously trying to think of a way to justify this. "Yeah... Um... But, you really hated having to do your Bar Mitzvah, right? You were whining about it all the time."

"So?"

"So if Cartman _hadn't_ burned down the synagogue halfway through it you would have been really bored, right? You would have had to put up with your family and everything..." She frowned at the face he was making. "_All I'm saying is_, at least Cartman makes things interesting."

"Well, I could do with a lot less excitement in this town," Kyle grumbled.

"Fine," Wendy huffed, gathering her books and jamming her boots back on. "You know what? Screw you, Kyle. I'm going home."

And then she marched out his bedroom door. Kyle sat at his desk for a while, staring after her, and then he sucked in a breath and shook his head.

"Damn," he said, "but if that isn't one of the freakiest things I've ever heard."

--

TBC


	9. When the Situation Warrants Mace

There's a reference to Team America in this chapter. I couldn't help myself.

--

--

--

Stan was leaning against the bus sign, staring moodily down at his feet. He would have liked to be in bed right now, eating soap and watching TV, but his mother had pulled the 'I'll call the doctor card,' so he'd had to stuff his things into his bag and grab a piece of toast on his way out the door.

After he'd gotten home yesterday he'd flopped back into bed and ran over what he'd uncovered in Kyle's room. (His face had heated up when he recalled the porn collection, and he'd buried it in his pillow, hoping halfheartedly that he'd suffocate to death.) He felt... God, he didn't even _know_. Like he'd been tricked out of a week or gone around in a circle or something. He simultaneously wanted and did not want to see Kyle. Because, well. He'd completely invaded his privacy for what had turned out to be nothing.

Nothing.

Abso-fucking-lutely nothing.

"Stan!"

Stan straightened, shifting his weight off of the frozen sign and back to his feet. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Kyle, who was waving at him with a surprised, pleased expression on his face.

Pleased because he liked him. Not because he _liked_ him.

"Hey," he said a little sullenly.

"God, am I glad to see you," Kyle said, crunching through the snow and joining his side. "I always manage to forget quite how much I hate Cartman until I'm stuck in his company again. And Kenny's... tolerable in small doses only." His eyebrows rose a little in abrupt concern. "What were you sick with?"

"Oh... just a... sore throat."

"It's not contagious, right?"

Stan couldn't help but crack a small grin at Kyle's unabashed selfishness. It made him feel a little less guilty for lying about his health. "No."

"Good."

"So," Stan said, "did you get the report done?"

"God, we'd _better_ have," Kyle let out a low growl that confused Stan utterly.

"Huh?"

"Fatass wrote it. Supposedly."

"_Cartman?_"

"Do you know any other fatasses?" Kyle asked, grinning a little.

"Why Cartman?"

"I had to meet Wendy and Kenny flaked out on us. Speaking of..." he said, narrowing his eyes as none other than Kenny made his way to the bus stop.

"Hey dudes," Kenny said

"Where the hell were you?" Kyle demanded, skipping morning pleasantries.

Kenny seemed to deliberate the point, then said quite simply, "Hell."

"Oh," Kyle said, his fury at being stood up switching to indifference at his friend's most resent demise. "So you were dead."

"Christ, don't cry your eyes out," Kenny said sarcastically. Then he said, "You'll be interested to know I did some very fascinating research."

"Really," Kyle said flatly.

"Really."

"And that would be...?"

"Hitler is a weakling when it comes to arm wrestling. Also, listening to German in like listening to someone with whooping cough."

Kyle rolled his eyes.

"So you got the report done, then?" Kenny said conversationally. "Weren't too busy sobbing over my grave?"

"Cartman did it."

Kenny looked genuinely unnerved. "What?"

"Cartman did it," Kyle repeated.

"Wait... so, you mean, you gave him the rough draft and he typed it up."

"No," Kyle said. "He did the whole thing."

Kenny stared at him. Then he said, "Are you sick in the head? What possessed you to let Cartman write a paper on Hitler?"

"You fags talking about me?" Cartman demanded, having finally arrived on the scene. Kenny turned to him, obviously intent on confirming what Kyle had said, but Kyle beat him to the punch.

"You had _better_," he said, glaring at him, "have the report."

"Relax, Jew. It's in my binder."

"All right, then, give it to me."

Cartman snorted. "I don't think so. I'm not letting you get your Jew-mits on it and jeopardize my grade."

Kenny rolled his eyes. "Cartman, it's a group project. We're all going to get the same grade."

"Precisely," Kyle said, glaring at him. "And the group doesn't trust you. Right, Stan?"

At that point, however, the bus pulled up, which saved Stan from responding. It was doubtful he would have, anyway, because he had resumed staring moodily at his feet when Kyle had mentioned Wendy and had been tuning his friends out.

He climbed the bus steps last, after Kyle, and Stan stared at his back while he argued with Cartman. He just... couldn't... _decide_ what he felt. If Kyle liked him then it was weird, and it made him feel self-conscious and hypersensitive and... spastic, for lack of a better term.

But if Kyle _didn't_ like him...

They used the same buses they had always used, which had always fit elementary students just fine, but not so much with high school students. Due to space restrictions, two people had to sit in a seat, and due to the ever-increasing size of the students, that meant the two people were crammed next to each other.

And that had never been a problem. Before.

Stan glanced down his thigh, which was shoved up against Kyle's (and he was _still_ hanging half in the aisle), then up at Kyle's face. Kyle didn't notice, however, because Kyle was twisted around in his seat and yelling at Cartman, who was sitting behind them, with Kenny. Stan felt sorry for Kenny.

He directed his gaze down to his hands, which were in his lap, because that was the only place they could be that wasn't touching Kyle.

If Kyle _didn't_ like him... well, he was entitled to a little disappointment, right? Knowing someone had a crush on you was _flattering_. It didn't mean he liked Kyle, or something. He'd just sort of liked the idea of Kyle liking him.

And Stan honestly couldn't decide how to feel about it. When he thought Kyle _did_, he felt flattered and awkward. When he thought Kyle _didn't_, he felt disappointed and relieved. And as soon as he was convinced Kyle _didn't_, Kyle said something or looked at him in a way that made him think he _did_.

"Fuck you, Cartman," Kyle was saying, turning back around in his seat. Kyle didn't keep his hands in his lap like Stan; he dangled his arms over the back of the seat, which meant his left was half draped over Stan's shoulders. He caught his eyes and grinned a little.

"Douches, both of them." Cartman and Kenny kicked the back of his seat. "_Uff_. Assholes. I'm glad I've got you back."

All credible evidence pointed to Kyle not liking him, Stan thought, as he colored a little and looked away.

But Kyle could have said 'I'm glad _you're back_.'

--

"... and in 2004, Kim Jong-il organized a mass peace rally..."

The morning had passed as normally as possible. Kyle and Cartman had kept arguing over who was more trustworthy to hold onto the report, and Kenny had scarcely escaped chemistry with his life.

Now history class had finally rolled around and Wendy was up at the front of the class with Jimmy, Veronica, and Andrew. Wendy was delivering the report, which Stan thought was a wise move, considering Jimmy's stuttering and the fact Andrew and Veronica were giggling and poking at each other, slapping each other's hands away and generally ignoring the rest of the class.

Wendy was having a little trouble, however, because Clyde and Craig were chatting in the corner and ignoring her, which was obviously aggravating her.

"Kim Jong-il is-"

Clyde said something and Craig snickered.

Wendy clenched her teeth. "Kim Jong-il-"

Craig gestured toward Bebe and muttered something under his breath.

"God damn it!" Wendy suddenly shouted, which made the class jump. "I am talking here and you will RESPECT MY AUTHORITAH!"

In the silence that followed, the only thing that could be heard was the buzzing of the fluorescent overhead lights. (God telling them they'd horribly misinterpreted the Ten Commandments, which was his misplaced grocery list, if you listened to Kyle.) Wendy certainly had Clyde and Craig's attention now. They, along with the rest of the class, were gaping at her.

"... Oh!" she cried, eyes wide, and clapped her hands over her mouth, the pages of her report fluttering to the ground. "_Oh!_" she said again, paling. She cast a startled glance in Cartman's direction, then made a break for the door.

Cartman promptly started after her, though Kyle made a dive for him and grabbed him by the back of the shirt.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Kyle hissed, outraged. "You have our report!"

Cartman broke out of his grip without answering, though he paused at the door long enough to flip him off. Kyle swore.

"... Mister Tedlock, Miss Depp, Mister Valmer, get on with it," Mr. Dorcas finally said.

Veronica snorted and brushed her hair over her shoulder. "_I_ don't know anything about Kill Gong-ill," she said loftily.

"Me neither," Andrew said, though he had the decency to look sheepish.

"Well," Mr. Dorcas said, sounding pleased, "if you can't finish your report, you'll get an 'F'."

"I do!" Jimmy said quickly. "K-kim J... J... _Jong_-il wah-was-"

"'F'!" Mr. Dorcas boomed loudly and somewhat panicky. He obviously feared listening to Jimmy deliver the report. They sat down, dejected (except Veronica, who busted out a nail file and went to work without a care).

"Team Broflovski," Mr. Dorcas said with incredible amusement. "Your turn."

Kyle glared at him, then he bent down and started going through Cartman's backpack.

"If you don't have it," Mr. Dorcas went on in a tremendously pleased tone of voice, "I'll be forced to give you an 'F'-"

"Here it is!" Kyle said, distinctively relieved. Mr. Dorcas looked a little disappointed, but beckoned them toward the front of the room.

"Get on with it, then."

Kyle, along with Stan and Kenny, made his way to the front of the room. He glanced briefly at the other two, but it was pretty much understood without speaking that he would read the report; Kenny nearly never spoke in class, and Stan was staring moodily at his feet with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Kyle cleared his throat and looked down at the report. Anyway, if he was reading it, he could start improvising if Cartman's Jew bashing got too bad.

But by the time he'd gotten two paragraphs into it, Kyle's eyebrows had disappeared into his hairline. The paper was... _good_. Startlingly good. His grammar was sort of crappy and it could have used another rewrite, but Cartman made some good points. He brought up how Hitler had pulled Germany out of their depression, rebuilt their demolished army, and gave them back their pride.

Mr. Dorcas was scowling by the time he finished. He had obviously been hoping that Kyle would pitch a fit, or something. He gestured toward their desks with disgust.

"Sit down. All right, Miss Stevens-"

The lunch bell rang. Wendy's performance had wasted enough class time so that the last group couldn't present. Everyone rushed for the door before Mr. Dorcas had a chance to tell them they all had to stay until they were finished, which was just the sort of thing he'd do.

There was the customary rush to the lunch lines, and once everyone had gotten their food they moved outside and grabbed their usual lunch spots. It wasn't until everyone had settled down that anyone noticed Cartman and Wendy, who were standing in the middle of the quad, screaming at each other.

"I _don't like you!_" Wendy was shouting.

"Well, good!" Cartman was shouting back. "I don't like you either!"

"And I'd never go out with you!"

"I'd never ask you!"

"And I'm not free on Saturday!"

"Well you can go to Shakey's Pizza, but you'll be waiting for me all day 'cause I'm not going to show up!"

"Fine!" Wendy hollered.

"Fine!" Cartman yelled.

And then they both stomped in opposite directions.

"Damn," Kenny said. "One day those two are both going to snap and have the hottest sex ever."

Kyle gagged on his apple. "Dude!" he shrieked. "I'm never going to get that image out of my head now!"

"Aw, Stanley, you hear that? Kyle here is picturing Cartman naked."

Stan shifted uncomfortably; Kyle threw his carton of milk at Kenny, who ducked, and it instead hit Heidi, who was standing behind him. He grinned and twisted around in his seat, offering to lick it off for her. She looked stunned for a moment, as if still trying to figure out why her sweater was dripped wet, and then she snarled and punched Kenny in the face.

"Pervert," Kyle grumbled. "It would serve him right if she maced him again."

"Yeah," Stan agreed passively, picking at his food.

--

TBC


	10. We're All a Little Gay

I just found out Isaac Hayes is leaving the show, which is a complete bummer. This chapter cheered me up, though.

Regarding Kenny's sister: she showed up without explanation in Best Friends Forever and remained unnamed. The only name I could think up for her was Kelly, and really - Kevin, Kenny, Kelly? What sort of parents are that uncreative? So she remains nameless.

Also, we're nearing the end here. Only a couple more chapters to go.

--

--

--

Stan was flicking through infomercials and Saturday morning cartoons when Kyle called.

"Hey," he said brightly. "Want to go out?"

Stan developed a horrible, hacking cough. The line was silent until he finished, and then Kyle said, "Damn, man. You still sick from Thursday?"

"No," Stan said quickly. "I mean. Why do you want to hang out?" he asked, careful with his wording.

"Since when do I need a reason?"

"You don't... I was just..."

"Well, if you want specifics, I have absolutely nothing to do and my mom isn't leaving the house until this afternoon. If I don't go out and do something she'll start bitching at me for wasting my free time and sign me up for Hebrew class or some shit like that. So you want to save me from the harpy?"

"So it'd... just be us two then? Why aren't Cartman and Kenny coming?"

"Because Cartman's off on his not-date with Wendy, and Kenny always tries to drag me to Raisins."

"And you... _don't_ like Raisins?" Stan asked.

"No, dude. They fry all their food in pig fat. The place reeks like bacon."

"... Oh."

"So, want to come over?"

"Actually," he said, biting his lip, "I've got some... stuff I can't get out of."

"... That's cool," Kyle said. "I'll catch up with you later."

Stan got off the phone feeling vaguely cheated. Kyle hadn't sounded disappointed at being turned down. Where was the possessiveness? If Kyle had a thing for him, wouldn't he care more about spending time together?

Stan decided he must have been wrong. Kyle didn't like him, and it really _was_ just another case of the town being stupid. But he'd just turned him down less than two minutes ago; he couldn't very well call him back and ask if he wanted to hang out.

He wasn't about to sit around his house and squander his Saturday, though. And Cartman was out, so that just left Kenny.

No one picked up at first, and Stan was just beginning to wonder if the McCormick's owned an answering machine when he heard a click and an unfamiliar voice say "Hello?"

"Um," Stan said. "Is Kenny there?"

"Kenny who?"

Stan gave the receiver a confused look. "What do you mean, Kenny who?"

"Meaning there're more than one Kenny at this residence."

"Since when?"

"Since yesterday. Family reunion."

"Oh."

"So which one do you want?"

"Um... the one that dies all the time?"

"_Oh_," the voice said. They dropped the phone and stomped off, shouting; a moment later Kenny's familiar, muffled voice greeted him.

"Hey man. What's up?"

"Dude, you're having a family reunion?"

"Nah, not really."

"Huh?"

"That's just what Uncle Ken says whenever he loses his job and moves in for a while to 'get back on his feet.'"

"Oh. That sucks, man."

"It's not so bad. I get to share my bed with my hot older cousin."

"Kenny, God _dammit_."

"So why're you calling?"

"I haven't got anything to do. You want to go set something on fire or something?"

"No way, dude, fuck that. Let's go to Raisins!"

Man, Kyle was dead-on. Still. Taking a trip to Raisins with Kenny. That sounded nice and heterosexual. But...

"Isn't the Nation Against Gluttony protesting that restaurant today? Dude, I don't want to try and sneak past a picket line."

"No, man, that makes it even better. The place will be empty and we'll get the hottest waitresses all to ourselves."

Stan hesitated, then relented. "Okay, sure."

"Great," Kenny said. "You're paying."

"What! Why don't you pay?"

"Dude, do we seriously have to go over that?"

Stan blew out irritably. "Fine. I'll meet you there."

Raisins had sort of grown up with the rest of the town. The waitresses had just never left, and the customers had just never changed. Kenny proclaimed, with great relish, that the girls even still wore the same outfits they had when they were in elementary school. It was the perfect sort of place for a group of guys to hang out at.

When he arrived, however, he saw Kenny had dragged some chick along with him.

"Dude, what are you doing bringing a girl here?" he asked, frowning.

Kenny shrugged. "She practically begged to come."

"She... why? What sort of date wants to come to a place like this?"

"Ugh, man, don't be gross." Stan gave him a confused look, and Kenny elaborated: "She's my _baby sister_. I do a lot of stuff but I don't do that. As for why she wanted to come along..." he shrugged again. "I admit, I had my suspicions when I caught her looking through my Playboys."

Stan stared at him a moment, then he glanced back at his little sister. She was ignoring them, however, and staring shamelessly at the waitresses.

"Hi!" a bubbly voice said, walking up and grabbing a few menus. "Three? This way," she sing-songed, leading them to a table. Stan looked around at the waitresses, making sure to note their varying levels of attractiveness and mentally reassured himself like he liked girls. Because he _did._ Even if the entire town thought he didn't. It wasn't like this was the first time he was the only one in town thinking rationally. Actually, that happened a lot.

"Hi boys." A waitress appeared, a smile plastered to her face. "I'm Ferrari and I'll be your waitress. How are you all today?" she trilled. Stan winced a little. Her voice was amazingly grating.

"A lot better now," Kenny grinned back, and she gave this high-pitched giggle.

"What can I get you guys?"

"A large fun fries, three chili dogs, a hamburger, onion rings, and a pitcher of cola," Kenny rattled off. Stan gaped at him.

"Dude. Just because I'm paying..."

"Oh come on. I didn't get any breakfast and I'm probably not going to get any dinner. If I die of starvation, do you really want that hanging over your head?"

"I've been either directly or indirectly responsible for a least a hundredth of your deaths," Stan shot back. "You can't guilt trip me."

"Maybe not," Kenny relented. "But I can make you pay. What do you want?" he asked his little sister, who finally tore her gaze away from Ferrari's chest.

"Taco," she said shortly, and then gave her brother a shit-eating grin.

Kenny shook his head a little and told Ferrari, "Just get her more of the same. Stan?"

"Um," Stan said. "Pizza and a soda, I guess."

"All right!" Ferrari said brightly, jotting down the rest of it. "I'll get it right away," she purred, stroking Stan's arm before waltzing in. Stan shifted uncomfortably.

The food actually did come right away, though Kenny's meal took several trips. Stan had to give Raisins credit, they had the best customer service. He sat there, thinking about how obviously and irreversibly heterosexual he was, and how the town's water supply was obviously contaminated if everyone thought otherwise. He started telling Kenny (who was devouring his food like some sort of starved dog) this, feeling the need to have somebody - _anybody_ - agree with him.

"Mppph Mff?"

Stan frowned at Kenny. "Don't talk with your mouth full. I have no idea what you just said."

Kenny swallowed and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "I said, 'You ever heard of Alfred Kinsey?'"

Stan blinked. "Um, no?"

"He's been hailed as the father of sexology-"

"Figures you've heard of him, then," Stan mumbled. Kenny ignored him.

"-and he was one of the people who got homosexuality taken off the list of mental diseases."

"Oh," Stan said.

Kenny nodded and took a swig of soda. "Anyway, my point is, Kinsey did this study where he rated people from 0 to 6, with 0 being completely straight and 6 being completely gay. And the results of the study showed that only about 6 percent of the population fell at either end of the scale. So basically, we're all a little gay."

"That's stupid," Stan said.

"Is not," Kenny said. "Take me, for example. We can all agree I am of the heterosexual persuasion, right?"

Stan snorted. "Anyone who's spent more than two minutes with you knows you like women."

"Right. I have a very healthy appreciation for the female form."

"That's one way of putting it." Kenny ignored the comment.

"But even though I don't go for men, I'd still blow a guy for ten dollars."

"Kenny... God."

"What? Everyone has a price. Mine just happens to be very low."

"You're such a whore, Kenny."

"Oh, come on. Let's say there's this really good restaurant. You go in, eat a sirloin steak, and then at the end of the meal the waitress pays you for it instead of bringing you a bill."

"That is completely different from prostitution for reasons that will come to me." He picked at his food for a moment, then he said, "You know, someone said something similar to me earlier this week..."

Kenny lifted an eyebrow. "Oh? Who?"

"Bebe."

"I always liked that girl," Kenny said fondly. "Always liked her rack, anyway. What'd she say?"

"That she'd do Jessica Rabbit."

"Well, shit. So would I."

"Me too!" Kenny sister spoke up. Stan jumped a little; he'd forgotten she was there. Then he gave her an incredulous look. She grinned cheekily at him, then slid out of her seat and headed in the general direction of the bathroom. Kenny took the opportunity to steal some of her fries and drained his glass, completely unfazed by her unabashed lesbianism.

"What if you were drunk?"

"What?" Stan said, taken off guard by the apparent non sequitur.

"Let's say you fucked a guy while you were drunk."

"That would never happen!"

"You're right," Kenny relented. "You'd probably be to drunk to get it up." He flagged down one of the waitresses.

"Hiii guys," she said in the stereotypical valley girl fashion. "I'm Porsche. Can I get you boys anything?"

"'Nother pitcher of cola."

"What about you, sweetie?" she asked, turning her attention to Stan.

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" she asked, leaning forward and giving him a nice cleavage shot. "I can get you _anything_."

"No thanks."

She looked a little disappointed when she left to get Kenny's drink.

"So how'd you like her?" Kenny asked.

"I didn't."

"Heh," Kenny half-snickered. "Fag."

Stan glared. "I like smart girls."

"No, you like smart guys. With Jewfros. And anger management issues."

Stan crossed his arms and sat back in his seat, determined not to dignify that with a response.

"What if you had a disease, and the only way to cure it was gay sex?"

"Yeah, right."

"Okay," Kenny said. "Let's say your mother has cancer."

"Dude!"

"And there's only one doctor in the world that can save her, but he'll only do it if you go down on Kyle."

"What kind of doctor makes conditions like _that?_"

"German. No one know why the fuck they do what they do. Look, the doctor's motives don't matter."

Stan gave Kenny a look. "What sort of cancer?"

"I dunno. Prostate."

"She'd never get prostate cancer!"

"Fine, testicular, then."

"She'd never get that either!"

"Look man, this is a hypothetical situation. Mellow out." Stan glared at him. "Suppose... there were terrorists."

"Oh, for the love of God-"

"And they're going to kill Fiona Apple if you and Kyle don't beat each other off. Would you do it then?"

"No!"

"Dude," Kenny said solemnly. "A woman's life hangs in the balance, and all you can think about is yourself? All you have to do to save the world is get laid. No beating Godzilla, no disarming the nuclear reactor in time. I bet Batman wished he could have solved all his problems by engaging in a little man love with Robin."

"No," Stan repeated stubbornly. "These hypothetical situations of yours are stupid."

"No?" Kenny repeated. "You'd seriously _never_ consider having sex with Kyle?"

"No!"

"Man, that's a real bummer for Jew boy. Someone should tell him his boyfriend is never going to put out."

Stan nearly choked to death out a french fry. "Kenny!" he snapped, pounding his chest while he coughed.

"Don't die, there," Kenny said with a certain amount of dark humor as he offered Stan his soda. "Look man, we're friends, right? Obviously not 'super best friends,' but at least we aren't at each other's throats like Kyle and Cartman."

"Sure..." Stan said. Admittedly, he didn't really think about Kenny that often. He was just sort of there. Every once and a while he did something, but usually he just told off-color jokes and propositioned every girl that came near him.

"Right," Kenny was saying, nodding. "So, you know, I only have your best interests in heart."

"Where are you going with this?"

"You've got to stop living in denial, man. It's not healthy. You and Kyle have been going out for - Christ, I don't even _know_ how long. Don't you think it's time you acknowledged it?"

"There's nothing to acknowledge! I'm not living in denial and _I'm not gay!_"

Kenny sighed and rolled his eyes skyward as if appealing to God. "Well, I tried."

Stan glared at him. Kenny stood up, grinned, and stuffed the rest of the dinner rolls in his parka. "Let's go."

"Those are free, you know," Stan said. "You don't have to stuff them down your pants."

"Force of habit." Kenny started for the door.

"Hold on," Stan said. He'd only just noticed that Kenny's sister had never reemerged. "Your sister's still in the bathroom."

Kenny shrugged. "Leave her."

"But-"

"She's not gonna come out for a while, man."

It took Stan until after he'd paid and left the restaurant to get it.

"Oh, sick dude! And the management just lets that happen? Doesn't that violate some sort of health code?"

"I know. My baby sister is nailing more chicks than I am. It's so depressing."

"Is your _entire family_ womanizing perverts?"

"My mom isn't," Kenny said defensively.

"Are you sure?"

"Ey, don't insult an Irishman's mother, fucker. They'll kick your ass and do a jig afterward."

"A terrifying prospect."

Kenny laughed and punched the crosswalk button. "Thanks for the food and stimulating conversation. See you later, dude."

He had scarcely stepped off the curb when a produce truck came tearing down the street and turned Kenny into a bloody smear.

"Yeah," Stan said absently. "See you tomorrow."

--

TBC


	11. Jews Always Win at Monopoly

The chapter you've all undoubtedly been waiting for.

--

--

--

The doorbell was ringing.

Kyle actually hated his house's doorbell. It was shrill, sort of like his mom's voice when she was ordering him around. It was particularly grating when he was trying to dust the top of a bookcase. He'd been cursing ancient literature for the particular way dust clung to it when the bell rang suddenly, startling him so that he fell backwards off the chair he'd been standing on.

Kyle cursed louder.

"Kyle!" he heard his mother call from the other room. "Could you get that!"

"Dust, Kyle. Answer the door, Kyle," he mimicked irritably. "Make up your fucking mind."

He hauled himself back onto his feet, put down his rag and Windex, and started toward the door as the bell rang again.

"I heard you the first time! Christ..." he yanked the door open, and his irritable expression immediately brightened. "Stan!"

Stan was standing on his front porch, his neck tilted up so that he was staring at the storm drain. When he heard Kyle his head snapped back down, and he winced and rubbed the back of his neck. "Hey."

"Hey yourself. What're you doing here?"

"Um, well..." Stan said, burying his hands into his pockets. "I got done with... what I had to do. Are you busy?"

"Hell no. Come in," he said, holding the door open. Kyle closed the door behind him, and Mrs. Broflovski shouted from the other room, "Who was it, Kyle!"

"It's Stan!" Kyle hollered back. They could hear her grumbling.

"She doesn't sound pleased to see me," Stan observed.

"She's just pissed because she lost her slave labor," he said cheerfully. "Hungry?"

"Not really," Stan said, who'd just watched Kenny gorge himself, after all.

"Suit yourself," Kyle said, shrugging, and made his way to the kitchen. Stan trailed after him and sat down at the table while Kyle dug into the refrigerator.

Stan really _hadn't_ been hungry, but there was nothing like smelling food and suddenly wanting it. And he _was_ a teenaged boy. He always had room for something. "Hey, Kyle?" he said, twisting around in his seat. "Leave out the stuff, okay? I'm going to make a sandwich too-"

Kyle set down the one he'd been making in front of him. Stan looked at it blankly.

"... I can make my own."

Kyle shrugged and turned back to the counter. "I was already up." Stan stared at his back for a while.

"... Thanks."

"Sure."

Stan picked up his sandwich and took a bite, then lifted his eyebrows. "This has mayonnaise on it."

"So?"

"So you hate mayonnaise."

"But you like it, right?" Kyle said, pulling up a chair. He'd grabbed a carton of milk in addition to his sandwich, which he was drinking directly from. Stan was sure Kyle's mom would have a fit if she saw. "So what were you doing this morning, anyway?" He asked conversationally.

"Er..." Stan said, momentarily panicked, and then he took a large bite out of his sandwich so that his reply was muffled.

Kyle lifted an eyebrow. "Stan-"

"Kyle!" Mrs. Broflovski shouted. "Where are you!"

"In the kitchen, Mom!" he shouted back, keeping his eyes on Stan. Until she appeared in the doorway, that is, wearing a 'God Hates Fatty Foods' shirt and carrying a picket sign with a similar message. Then he couldn't help but stare.

"Kyle, I'm leaving for the protest now. You be good while I'm gone."

Stan could tell Kyle was fighting the urge to roll his eyes. "Yes, Mom." He didn't say anything else until they heard the front door close, when he turned to Stan and grinned.

"Wanna play Gamesphere?"

Kyle was the only kid in South Park that had a Gamesphere, which had been outdated for the past four years, ever since the Gamepyramid had been released. Kyle had the unfortunate inability to stay on top of trends, be it collecting Chinpokomon or turning metrosexual.

"Sure," Stan said, because it sounded like a nice way to avoid Kyle's questions about what he'd been doing for the past week.

He flopped down on the couch while Kyle plugged it in and set it up, and tried becoming one with the upholstery. He only spent energy when Kyle, grinning at his sluggish posture, chucked the control at his head. Stan caught it and made a face at him, to which Kyle snickered then kicked him unceremoniously.

"Move your lazy ass over and give me some room."

Stan grunted and made a show of taking up as much room as was humanly possible.

"I'll sit on your lap," Kyle threatened.

Stan scrambled out of the way as fast as was humanly possible, his face burning.

Kyle lifted an eyebrow, but he'd gotten the couch space he'd wanted so he didn't question his friend on his odd behavior. Instead he plopped down, switched on the game, and started flipping through the menus. It was some game where you had to stop the Three Stooges from joining together and turning into a single entity and that takes over the world.

Video games had gotten steadily stupider over the past few years.

While Kyle engrossed himself in the game, Stan watched him out of the corner of his eye and absently pushed buttons. Stan wished he could just... _be_ more like Kyle. That he could just brush off all these accusations, that he could just _not care_ the way Kyle did.

Stan was vaguely aware of Kyle yelling at him to jump. He did, sluggishly, and his player's head was torn off. He died, twitching and gushing blood in a very undignified, pixellated death.

"Damn it, Stan," Kyle said, "if you're going suck that badly, I'm switching this from two player to one-on-one."

"I'm not really up for video games," Stan muttered, dropping his controller. Kyle sighed and chucked his own at the console. (Stan wondered, briefly, how Kyle hadn't broken it yet.)

"All right," he said, crossing his arms. "Then what _do_ you want to do?"

Stan glanced at him, then quickly adverted his gaze to the couch cushion. What he _really_ wanted to do was just _stop thinking_. About Kyle, about how Kyle didn't like him in the least, and about how Kyle was so obviously more secure with their friendship than he was, if this sort of thing didn't rattle him.

"... go spit over the highway overpass," Kyle was saying. There was a pause. "Or take a horse-drawn carriage ride through the park and see all the picnickers."

Stan blinked and finally looked him in the face. "_What_?"

Kyle smirked. "Just checking to see if you were paying attention." Stan said nothing. "Though, ya'know, if you _want_ to, we could grab a taxi and go through Colfax Point. See all the hookers. That's probably the closest equivalent this town has."

Stan sighed and stretched his legs out. "Maybe I should just go home."

"No!" Kyle said quickly. Stan glanced at him. "C'mon man, between that stupid project and you getting sick we haven't gotten to spend any time together this week."

Stan shifted a little guiltily.

Kyle got off the couch. "Let's play a board game."

"Oh, come on, Kyle. Board games are lame," Stan said, groaning. Kyle ignored him and walked to the hall closet, opening the door and switching on the light. He starting digging through old boxes his family kept stuffed in there.

"Checkers?"

"_Lame_."

"Scrabble?"

"You always cheat."

"I do not."

"You make up words. You can't even use them in a sentence."

"I can so."

"'_Stan is a dumbass who doesn't know what "quaquaversal" means'_ doesn't count as a sentence!"

"Scrabble is out, then," Kyle said, shoving the box back in. Stan heard him laugh suddenly. "Hey, what about Ants-in-the-Pants?"

"Kyle, _come on_."

"Strip poker?"

Stan gave himself whiplash. "_What? NO!_"

"Mellow out, Stan. I was just kidding." Kyle's back was turned toward him, so he couldn't see the bright red color Stan was turning. "A-ha! Monopoly!"

"That's a stupid game," Stan muttered.

"Shut up," Kyle said brightly, hauling the board out and walking back over, plopping down on the floor and leaning his back against the TV. Stan watched from his place on the couch as Kyle unfolded the board and starting going through the brightly colored paper money.

"Most of the 500s are missing... I think Ike and Filmore were playing stockbroker again."

"Filmore?" Stan repeated blankly.

"Yeah, Ike's dorky friend. They spend most of their time arguing, though." He lifted up the rules and scooped the playing pieces up in a fist. "What do'ya want to be? The shoe?"

"_Kyle-_"

"Or the iron? You could be my hired help and I could call you slave boy."

"Shut up, Kyle." Stan flushed and slid off the couch, picking out the battleship because it was the only way he could think of to get Kyle to do so.

"Great," Kyle said cheerfully, slipping the rubber bands off of the chance cards and shuffling them. "Okay. We will, of course, be playing with the traditional Jew rules."

"... Traditional Jew rules?" Stan repeated, feeling lost.

"Yes," Kyle said with a perfectly straight face. "Meaning, I will be starting the game off with the railroads, utilities, and Boardwalk. Because Jews control everything."

"Really?" Stan asked.

Kyle cracked up. "No, not _really._ Shit, Stan, what's wrong with you today? You can't take a joke."

"I'm not the one with the problem," Stan grumbled. Kyle frowned at him.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's just... damn it," Stan said, climbing to his feet and scowling at the floor a little. "It's just - _Christ_, Kyle. Why aren't you pissed off?"

"Um - should I be?"

"YES!" Stan exploded. "I've been avoiding you practically all week, I've been blowing you off and getting out of seeing you, and it's like... It's like you don't even _care_ if we hang out!" He turned away, glaring at the wall. The idea that Kyle could just be so _indifferent_ toward him annoyed the crap out of Stan - and it hurt, too.

"Of course I care," Kyle said, sounding stung.

"Then why aren't you angry! Usually that sort of thing pisses you off more than anything else!"

"I just figured this whole thing was still bothering you."

"There!" Stan said, wheeling around and jabbing a finger at his chest. "_Right_ there! That's the entire problem right there!"

Kyle arched an eyebrow, looking generally baffled.

"_Why_ doesn't this bother you?" Stan cried, seizing the front of Kyle's shirt in his hands and dragging him up to his knees. "_WHY?_"

Kyle sighed and shifted so that he wasn't kneeling on the Monopoly board. Then he reached up, griped Stan by the back of the neck, gave him a somewhat apologetic look, and pulled Stan down to where he was. And then he was kissing him.

What struck Stan first was that kissing Kyle was entirely unlike kissing a girl. Not _bad_, not even particularly weird, just completely different. Like Kyle didn't have long nails that dug into his scalp. And he hadn't heavily applied liquid plastic to his lips so there was no mess, just skin. And he didn't smell like anything weird, like some fake fruit scented shampoo combination like mango and passion fruit or banana and pomegranate. He just smelled like a person.

And it was nice. Preferable, even.

All of this Stan noted in the span of two seconds, and then Kyle let go of Stan's neck and he stood up straight and stared at him for a while.

"Oh," he said.

Then he turned and left the room in a bit of a daze.

--

TBC


	12. The Enthralling Conclusion

So, this is the last chapter. (Wow, and just in time for the new season, too.) I want to thank everyone one last time for reading/reviewing!

The next fic I'll be working on will be a Cartman/Wendy multichapter fic. I don't expect to do be very popular, being het (heh), but hopefully you'll give it a shot if you liked LBUTR. To entice you, I will mention that there _will_ be a minor Kyle/Stan subplot.

--

--

--

Wendy was standing on her tiptoes, peering over the heads of the customers of Shakey's Pizza and trying to see the front door. She was wearing her favorite skirt, which showed off her nice soccer legs, which she'd stopped wearing to school because Kenny was a creepy whore.

But it was just a coincidence she was wearing it today. Really.

She frowned and dropped back down on her feet, biting absently at a recently painted fingernail.

"Ugh, they let you hippies in everywhere nowadays."

Wendy spun around to face Cartman, who'd done something weird to his hair. But then, Cartman was always doing something weird to his hair, so that was just a coincidence, too.

Really.

"What are you doing here?" Wendy said loftily, brushing off the front of her skirt.

"I come here all the time, ho. What are _you_ doing here?"

"I come here all the time, too!" They glared at each other as the line moved up.

"What can I get for you?" the cashier asked pleasantly.

"Slaughterhouse pizza and an extra large Dr. Pep."

"I'm sorry, sir," the cashier said, "but we don't sell slaughterhouse pizza anymore. NAG has shown us the light, and now we only sell healthy alternatives."

"I understand," Cartman said. "But maybe you have some slaughterhouse for my friend... Mr. Hamilton?"

"That's George Washington," Wendy hissed at him.

"I think I know the difference between the presidents, bitch."

"Alexander Hamilton wasn't a president!"

"Hell, I'll take it," the cashier said. "They hardly pay us at all." He took the dollar from Cartman and slipped it into his pocket. "And for you, little lady?"

"A slice of veggie pizza and a small diet coke," she said promptly. The cashier turned to grab their order from the pre-made pizza circling slowly under the heating lamps. Wendy glanced sideways at Cartman.

"We _aren't_ ordering together," she informed him. "It's just that he asked, and the line is so slow."

"You don't need to tell me, little lady," Cartman mocked. Wendy glared.

The cashier returned; Cartman and Wendy both dug into their wallets, then Wendy grabbed her tray and marched off to find a table. Cartman trailed after her.

Unfortunately, because it was Saturday afternoon, most of the tables were taken by elementary students, middle schoolers, and mothers who'd rather resort to fast food than fix their children lunch. Wendy scanned the room, located a small table by the window, and quickly headed over before someone else could get to it.

Cartman set down his tray the moment she sat down.

"_Excuse_ me," she said. "Go find your own table."

"They're all taken."

She snorted and gestured to the opposite side of the room. "There're three over there."

"What, next to that woman that can't keep her legs closed and her brood? I don't want some whore bitching at me for not censoring myself so her crotch fruit aren't subjected to opinions other than her own." He sat down opposite her and started digging into his pizza.

"God," she breathed, "is there _anything_ that you don't complain about?"

He actually seemed to consider this, then he scowled. "Hey, there's plenty I'm not complaining about _at the moment_." She wrinkled her noise as he continued eating, and he said, "Like, for instance, that bitchy face your making. I'm not gagging because _you're_ eating some vegetable shit."

She glared. "You could stand to eat less, you know."

"You could stand to eat more."

"I'm _watching my weight_. Guys don't like fat girls."

"Well, I'm going to hate you no matter how skinny you get."

Wendy frowned at him, then glanced down at her picked-at piece of pizza. Then she clenched her teeth, shoved it away from herself, and grabbed a slice of Cartman's pizza, which was laden with sausage, pepperoni, chicken, and what was quite possibly road kill, knowing this town.

"Ey, bitch! That's mine!"

She made a face at him as she scarfed it down. "Bet I can eat more than you."

"It's _mine!_" he snapped, and then it was a competition, so obviously neither of them could let the other win. Wendy was halfway through her third piece when she starting coughing.

"If you choke to death you forfeit," Cartman informed her.

Wendy grabbed her drink and downed the entire thing, then fanned her face. "Damn," she choked out, her face falling as she looked down at the ice in the bottom of her cup. "I wish I'd gotten a larger drink."

"So go get some more instead of bitching about it."

"I don't want to wait in that nightmare of a line for a _drink_."

Cartman rolled his eyes. "Dumbass, the fountain's _right there_. Just go and fill it back up."

Wendy gave him a scandalized look. "You're not supposed to do that!"

"So? Everyone does."

"You're still not supposed to!"

"God damn it, and you said _I_ complain," Cartman grumbled, and slid his oversized drink across at her. "Just drink it and shut up."

Wendy took a grateful swig and then lowered the cup, giving him a thoughtful look.

"_What?_" Cartman demanded rudely.

"... My group failed the project, you know."

Cartman snorted. "Obviously. You were PMSing all over the place."

"If I'd made my group help me instead of doing all the work, we won't have," she added, playing with her straw.

"Well that's because you're a self-absorbed super-bitch."

She glared at him a little. "I heard you did your group's report."

"You hear that from the fag?"

"Quit calling Kyle that!" she cried, banging her palms against the table.

"He _is _one. It'd be like not calling him a _Jew_."

"He's also a friend of mine!"

"Well you have terrible taste in people!"

Wendy scowled out the window. "You're right," she muttered, "I do." She sighed and looked back at him. "_Why_ did you write the report?"

"The satisfaction of proving you wrong, ho."

She blinked and her eyebrows rose, and then she took another sip of his soda and smiled a little.

"You know what's nice about you?" she said suddenly. Cartman lifted an eyebrow at her in a 'go on' sort of fashion. "I don't have to _try_ around you. I can be as spiteful as I want around you, and you don't care. It doesn't matter to you if I'm vindictive or jealous or down right nasty."

"You know what's amazing about you?" he asked, and Wendy gave him a surprised look until he continued. "Your uncanny ability to ruin an otherwise pleasant conversation by talking."

But when she smiled at him, he smiled back.

--

Stan sat on his living room couch, staring dumbly at the floor between his feet.

What he _really_ wished was that he lived under an oppressive totalitarian regime. Then he could just have some kindly dictator _tell_ him how he should think and everything would be _so much easier_.

He sighed and his front door opened, and Kyle walked in without knocking. "Stan?"

No answer.

"Stan, I think we should talk," Kyle said, moving tentatively in front of him. Stan didn't look up, and Kyle frowned. "Stan?"

Stan thought about all the places they went to together, and all the movies they saw together, and things they did together, and just all the _time_ they spent together that Kenny spent hitting on chicks and Cartman spent harassing Wendy - or that any other guy in their graduating class spent with girls. And, God, it _was_ obvious, wasn't it?

"Why didn't you _tell_ me we were dating?" he asked sullenly.

Looking somewhat relieved he'd gotten a response, Kyle sat down next to him on the couch.

"It was going so well. I thought it might jeopardize our relationship if you _knew_ there was a relationship." He kept a straight face for all of two seconds, then he started to laugh.

Stan finally looked up. "Really?"

"No, not _really_," Kyle snickered, then sobered up. "I mean... I was _going_ to tell you. But then I just kept waiting for the right time and putting it off, and then _too much_ time passed. Like when you keep a library book under your bed for three years. You can't just waltz in one day and return it, you know?" He shifted so that his hand was hanging off the back of the couch and their shoulders were touching. "Anyway, you're pretty perceptive. I knew you'd figure it out eventually."

"Yeah..." Stan said slowly. "But - God - _Butters_ knew before me."

"Well... admittedly, you're sort of oblivious when it comes to relationships."

"What! Since when?"

"Since _always_. Remember when Wendy broke up with you?"

Stan frowned at him. "Yes."

"No, I mean, do you remember _when_ Wendy broke up with you?"

"Um... it was a week or so after all that crap with Rob Riener."

Kyle shook his head, smiling in an almost sympathetic way. "Man," he said, "she broke up with you a little while after she got her breast implants taken back out."

Stan gaped at him. "_What?_"

"You said so yourself. You hadn't talked to her for weeks. Seriously, the whole school knew you weren't an item anymore. Wendy finally got tired of waiting for you to realize it and made Bebe tell you."

Stan stared at him. "_Everyone_ knew?"

"You just don't notice these things."

He was quiet for a minute, and then he groaned and said, "Oh, fuck, I was _jealous OF_ Wendy."

"Mm-hm," Kyle said, nodding. "Everyone knows that, too, by the way."

Stan blew out an aggravated breath and leaned back into the couch and, incidentally, into Kyle. Kyle shifted closer, and then he said, "Um." Stan glanced at him.

"Um," he said again. "Okay, I admit, I'm sort of bullshitting you. I mean, yeah it was harder to tell you because I was putting it off, but I was putting it off because - well - is it okay?"

Stan looked at him blankly. "What?"

"That we're dating. Is that _okay?_"

"Oh," Stan said, and then, "_oh_." Because it was sort of stupid, but for all the reasons Kyle could have had to keep him in the dark, Stan hadn't even considered fear of rejection as one of them.

He silent for a while, and so was Kyle, and then he grinned at him. "Well, yeah. After all. What sort of asshole puts himself before his mother?"

Kyle gave him a confused look. "What?"

"The terrorists have Fiona Apple."

Kyle shook his head. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

"Damn it, are you going to make me _say_ it?" Stan asked, screwing up his face. "I want to be with you." He paused, then groaned. "Man, that sounds so gay."

Kyle laughed a little, distinctively relieved. "Wow, nothing gets past you, does it? With those perceptive skills of yours, I'm amazed you didn't realize sooner."

"Shut up," Stan said, elbowing him. Kyle snickered and elbowed him back, and Stan put him in a headlock, and Kyle lunged forward and knocked them both off the couch, and when they finally settled down again Stan was squashed between the edge of the couch and Kyle, half-lying on him.

"I don't really _want_ to be gay," Stan confessed, talking into Kyle's shoulder.

"So then don't be."

Stan snorted. "Smartass."

Kyle nudged him. "Well, I'm not. Mostly."

"You have the typical male obsession with lesbians, at least," Stan muttered. Kyle frowned at him.

"How'd you know that?"

"... oh, shit," he swore.

Understanding dawned on Kyle. "_You're_ the one who broke into my room."

"Um, yeah," Stan said, and winced. "You're not pissed, are you?"

"Damn right I'm pissed. You abandoned me to _Cartman_."

Stan squinted at him. "... but you're not pissed I broke into your room and went through our stuff?"

Kyle shrugged. "Not mostly. I should have figured it was you. If Kenny ever found out I had porn he'd 'borrow' it without permission and I'd never see it again." He paused, then he said, in a funny sort of tone, "You didn't go through the DVDs under my bed... right?"

"What, the Star Trek?" Stan said. "No, why?"

"No reason," Kyle said quickly. Stan squinted at him suspiciously.

"... What's in those Star Trek cases?"

"Star Trek DVDs?" Kyle suggested hopefully.

"My _God_," Stan said. "_That's_ where you keep your gay porn, isn't it?" he exclaimed.

"Quiet!" Kyle hissed. "And, NO, it is not!" But it was the same sort of 'no' Stan had been using all week long.

"Oh, sick, it _is_," Stan said, making a face. "Oh, sick, I touched the _box_."

"Shut up!" Kyle said in a less polite reiteration of his last comment.

Stan just shook his head. "Christ, how much porn do you _watch?_"

Kyle was silent.

"Well?"

"I'm trying to remember."

Stan snorted, amused, and they laid there for awhile while Kyle absentmindedly drew patterns on Stan's stomach with his finger and told him Kirk and Spock were as gay as gay could be, anyway.

"Hey," Stan said suddenly, as the thought occured to him, and prodded Kyle.

"What?"

"I'm not going to have to find out from the the school when we start sleeping together, am I?"

Kyle gaped at him. Then he started to laugh.

"Don't worry," he assured him. "I'll make sure you notice."

--

End


End file.
